_Ant._ Why? all Physicians And penny Almanacks allow the opening Of veins this moneth: why do ye talk of bloudy? What come we for, to fall to cuffes for apples? What, would ye make the cause a Cudgel quarrel? On what terms stands this man? is not his honour Open'd to his hand, and pickt out like an Oyster? His credit like a quart pot knockt together, Able to hold no liquor? clear but this point. _Petr._ Speak softly, gentle cousin. _Ant._ I'le speak truly; What should men do ally'd to these disgraces, Lick o're his enemie, sit down, and dance him? _2 Gent._ You are as far o'th' bow hand now. _Ant._ And crie; That's my fine boy, thou wilt do so no more child. _Petr._ Here are no such cold pities. _Ant._ By Saint _Jaques_ They shall not find me one: here's old tough _Andrew_, A special friend of mine, and he but hold, I'le strike 'em such a hornpipe: knocks I come for, And the best bloud I light on; I profess it, Not to scare Coster-mongers; If I lose mine own, Mine audits cast, and farewel five and fifty. _Pet._ Let's talk no longer, place your selves with silence, As I directed ye, and when time calls us, As ye are friends, so shew your selves. _Ant._ So be it. [_Exeunt._ SCENE IX. _Enter Don_ John, _and his Land-lady_. _Land._ Nay Son, if this be your regard. _John._ Good Mother. _Lan._ Good me no goods; your cousin, and your self Are welcom to me, whilst you bear your selves Like honest and true Gentlemen: Bring hither To my house, that have ever been reputed A Gentlewoman of a decent, and fair carriage, And so behav'd my self-- _John._ I know ye have. _Lan._ Bring hither, as I say, to make my name Stink in my neighbours nostrils? your Devises, Your Brats, got out of Alligant, and broken oaths? Your Linsey Woolsy work, your hasty puddings? I, foster up your filch'd iniquities? Y'are deceiv'd in me, Sir, I am none Of those receivers. _John._ Have I not sworn unto you, 'Tis none of mine, and shew'd you how I found it? _Land._ Ye found an easie fool that let you get it, She had better have worn pasterns. _John._ Will ye hear me? _Lan._ Oaths? what do you care for oaths to gain your ends, When ye are high and pamper'd? What Saint know ye? Or what Religion, but your purpos'd lewdness, Is to be look'd for of ye? nay, I will tell ye, You will then swear like accus'd Cut-purses, As far off truth too; and lye beyond all Faulconers: I'me sick to see this dealing. _John._ Heaven forbid Mother. _Lan._ Nay, I am very sick. _John._ Who waits there? _Ant._ Sir. [_Within._ _John._ Bring down the bottle of Canary wine. _Lan._ Exceeding sick, Heav'n help me.