Are you not hurt i'th' Groyne? me thought hee
made a shrewd Thrust at your Belly
Fal. Haue you turn'd him out of doores?
Bard. Yes Sir: the Rascall's drunke: you haue hurt
him (Sir) in the shoulder
Fal. A Rascall to braue me
Dol. Ah, you sweet little Rogue, you: alas, poore Ape,
how thou sweat'st? Come, let me wipe thy Face: Come
on, you whorson Chops: Ah Rogue, I loue thee: Thou
art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth fiue of Agamemnon,
and tenne times better then the nine Worthies: ah
Villaine
Fal. A rascally Slaue, I will tosse the Rogue in a Blanket
Dol. Doe, if thou dar'st for thy heart: if thou doo'st,
Ile canuas thee betweene a paire of Sheetes.
Enter Musique.
Page. The Musique is come, Sir
Fal. Let them play: play Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol.
A Rascall, bragging Slaue: the Rogue fled from me like
Quick-siluer
Dol. And thou followd'st him like a Church: thou
whorson little tydie Bartholmew Bore-pigge, when wilt
thou leaue fighting on dayes, and foyning on nights, and
begin to patch vp thine old Body for Heauen?
Enter the Prince and Poines disguis'd.
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