Don. Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look you, you prattle-box you, I'll ask him.
Mrs. Caut. I will ask him, I say!—come!
Don. Where?
Mrs. Caut. What!
Don. Mine's a shrewd question.
Mrs. Caut. Mine's as shrewd as yours.
Don. Nay, then, we shall have it.—Come, answer me; where's your lodging? come, come, sir.
Mrs. Caut. A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I warrant you; for 'tis spring-time, you know.
Don. Must you make lies for him?
Mrs. Caut. But come, sir; what's your name?—answer me to that; come.