_Fab._ Ha, ha. _Jac._ Why dost thou laugh at me, thou wretched fellow? Speak with a Pox; and look ye render me Just such a reason-- _Fab._ I shall dye with laughing. _Jac._ As no man can find fault with; I shall have Another Sword, I shall, ye flearing Puppy. _Fab._ Does not this testiness shew finely in thee? Once more take heed of Children, if they find thee, They'll break up School to bear thee Company, Thou wilt be such a pastime, and whoot at thee, And call thee Bloody-Bones, and Spade, and Spit-fire, And Gaffer Mad-man; and go by _Jeronimo_, And will with a wisp, and come aloft, and crack rope, And old Saint _Dennis_ with the dudgeon Codpiss! And twenty such names. _Jac._ No, I think they will not. _Fab._ Yes, but they will; and Nurses still their Children Only with thee, and here take him, _Jacomo_. _Jac._ God's precious, that I were but over thee One Steeple height, I would fall and break thy Neck. _Fab._ This is the reason I laugh at thee, And while thou art thus, will do; tell me one thing. _Jac._ I wonder how thou durst thus question me; Prithee restore my Sword. _Fab._ Tell me but one thing, And it may be I will; Nay Sir, keep out. _Jac._ Well, I will be your fool now, speak your mind, Sir. _Fab._ Art thou not breeding teeth? _Jac._ How? Teeth? _Fab._ Yes, teeth, thou wouldst not be so froward else. _Jac._ Teeth? _Fab._ Come, 'Twill make thee A little rheumatick, but that's all one, We'll have a Bib, for spoiling of thy Doublet; And a fring'd Muckender hang at thy Girdle, I'll be thy Nurse, and get a Coral for thee, And a fine Ring of Bells. _Jac._ 'Faith, this is somewhat Too much, _Fabricio_, to your friend that loves you; Methinks your goodness rather should invent A way to make my follies less, than breed 'em; I should have been more moderate to you, But I see ye despise me. _Fab._ Now I love ye, There, take your Sword: continue so; I dare not Stay now to try your patience, soon I'll meet ye, And as you love your honours, and your state, Redeem your self well to the Gentlewoman, Farewel till soon. [_Exit_ Fabricio. _Jac._ Well, I shall think of this. [_Exit_ Jacomo. SCENE [VI]. _Enter Host_, Piso, _and Boy with a Glass of Wine_. _Pis._ Nothing i'th' World, but a dry'd Tongue or two-- _Host._ Taste him, and tell me. _Pis._ Is a valiant wine, This must be mine, Host. _Host._ This shall be _ipse_, Oh, he's a devilish biting wine, a Tyrant Where he lays hold, Sir, this is he that scorns Small Beer should quench him; or a foolish Caudle Bring him to Bed; no, if he flinch I'll shame him, And draw him out to mull amongst old Midwives.