Hotsp. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault
Lady. Now God helpe thee
Hotsp. To the Welsh Ladies Bed
Lady. What's that?
Hotsp. Peace, shee sings.
Heere the Lady sings a Welsh Song.
Hotsp. Come, Ile haue your Song too
Lady. Not mine, in good sooth
Hotsp. Not yours, in good sooth?
You sweare like a Comfit-makers Wife:
Not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I liue;
And, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day:
And giuest such Sarcenet suretie for thy Oathes,
As if thou neuer walk'st further then Finsbury.
Sweare me, Kate, like a Lady, as thou art,
A good mouth-filling Oath: and leaue in sooth,
And such protest of Pepper Ginger-bread,
To Veluet-Guards, and Sunday-Citizens.
Come, sing
Lady. I will not sing
Hotsp. 'Tis the next way to turne Taylor, or be Redbrest teacher: and the Indentures be drawne, Ile away within these two howres: and so come in, when yee will. Enter.