Tis some stinking troublesome knave, I warrant ye.
_Citty wife_. Hang him, regard him not; theres hemming indeede, like a
Cat, God blesse us, with a burre in her throate.
[_Exeunt_
_Grac_. S'hart, how we are ript up for this?
_Ac_. Oh man, this hemming is the most hatefulst thing, theres not the
most publique punck,[273] nor worm-eaten bawd that can abide it, and
honestie would run madde to heare it. But come we waste time, tis now
about the mid of day; we must sowe arithmatike by the houres, that
at[274] the morrowes highth _Philautus_ awake again, at which time he
shall be on his Hearse, and all the Guestes of the Hobbye invited to
accompany his ghost, when being awake, himselfe and all shall see if
drunkenesse be not mad misterie.
_Grac_. But I prethee, practise some milder behaviour at the ordinarie,
be not al madman.
_Acut_. Push,[275] ile bee all observative, and yet ifaith I grieve to
see this double garded[276] age, all side-coate, all foole. Fye thou
keepest the sports from the marke; away, and returne.
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