Laun. I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth 020 expect your reproach.
Shy. So do I his.
Laun. And they have conspired together, I will not say you shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black-Monday [025] last at six o’clock i’ the morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year, in the afternoon.
[027] Shy. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum,
[029] And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife,
030 Clamber not you up to the casements then,
Nor thrust your head into the public street
To gaze on Christian fools with varnish’d faces;
But stop my house’s ears, I mean my casements: