Mort. With all my heart Ile sit, and heare her sing:
By that time will our Booke, I thinke, be drawne
Glend. Doe so:
And those Musitians that shall play to you,
Hang in the Ayre a thousand Leagues from thence;
And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend
Hotsp. Come Kate, thou art perfect in lying downe:
Come, quicke, quicke, that I may lay my Head in thy
Lappe
Lady. Goe, ye giddy-Goose.
The Musicke playes.
Hotsp. Now I perceiue the Deuill vnderstands Welsh,
And 'tis no maruell he is so humorous:
Byrlady hee's a good Musitian
Lady. Then would you be nothing but Musicall,
For you are altogether gouerned by humors:
Lye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh
Hotsp. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in
Irish
Lady. Would'st haue thy Head broken?
Hotsp. No
Lady. Then be still