_Evan._ I could curse thee wickedly, And wish thee more deformed than Age can make thee, Perpetual hunger, and no teeth to satisfie it, Wait on thee still, nor sleep be found to ease it; Those hands that gave the Casket, may the Palsie For ever make unuseful, even to feed thee: Long winters, that thy Bones may turn to Isicles, No Hell can thaw again, inhabit by thee. Is thy Care like thy Body, all one crookedness? How scurvily thou cryest now! like a Drunkard, I'll have as pure tears from a dirty spout; Do, swear thou didst this ignorantly, swear it, Swear and be damn'd, thou half Witch. _Cas._ These are fine words, well Madam, Madam. _Evan._ 'Tis not well, thou mummy, 'Tis impudently, basely done, thou durty-- _Fred._ Has your young sanctity done railing, Madam, Against your innocent 'Squire? do you see this Sonnet, This loving Script? do you know from whence it came too? _Evan._ I do, and dare avouch it pure, and honest. _Fred._ You have private Visitants, my noble Lady, That in sweet numbers court your goodly Vertues, And to the height of adoration. _Evan._ Well, Sir, There's neither Heresie nor Treason in it. _Fred._ A Prince may beg at the door, whilst these feast with ye; A favour or a grace, from such as I am, _Enter_ Valerio, _and_ Podramo. Course common things. You are welcome; Pray come near Sir, Do you know this paper? _Val._ I am betray'd; I do, Sir, 'Tis mine, my hand and heart, if I dye for her, I am thy Martyr, Love, and time shall honour me. _Cas._ You sawcy Sir, that came in my Ladies name, For her gilt Cabinet, you cheating Sir too, You scurvy Usher, with as scurvy legs, And a worse face, thou poor base hanging holder, How durst thou come to me with a lye in thy mouth? An impudent lye? _Pod._ Hollow, good _Gill_, you hobble. _Cas._ A stinking lye, more stinking than the teller, To play the pilfering Knave? there have been Rascals Brought up to fetch and carry, like your Worship, That have been hang'd for less, whipt they are daily, And if the Law will do me right-- _Pod._ What then old Maggot? _Cas._ Thy Mother was carted younger; I'll have thy hide, Thy mangy hide, embroider'd with a dog-whip, As it is now with potent Pox, and thicker. _Fred._ Peace good Antiquity, I'll have your Bones else Ground into Gunpowder to shoot at Cats with; One word more, and I'll blanch thee like an almond, There's no such cure for the she-falling sickness As the powder of a dryed Bawds Skin, be silent. You are very prodigal of your service here, Sir, Of your life more it seems.