Cost. Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout.
Boyet. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.
[129] Cost. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.
130 Mar. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.
Cost. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.
Boyet. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. [Exeunt Boyet and Maria.
Cost. By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!
Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!
135 O’ my troth, most sweet jests! most incony vulgar wit!
When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit.