my toes look through the overleather.
Lord. Heaven cease this [idle] humour in your honour!
O, that a mighty man of such descent,
Of such possessions and so high esteem,
Should be infused with so foul a spirit!
Sly. What, would you make me mad? Am not I
[Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton-heath,] by birth a
pedlar, by education a [card-maker,] by transmutation a
bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask
Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me