_Cla._ First doe I break your Office o're your pate, You Dog-skin-fac'd rogue, pilcher, you poor _John_, Which I will beat to Stock-fish. _Luc._ Sister. _Bob._ Madam. _Cla._ You Cittern-head, who have you talk'd to, ha? You nasty, stinking, and ill-countenanc'd Cur. _Bob._ By this hand, I'll bang your brother for this, when I get him alone. _Cla._ How? kick him _Lucio_, he shall kick you _Bob_, Spight o' the nose, that's flat: kick him, I say, Or I will cut thy head off. _Bob._ Softly y' had best. _Cla._ Now, thou lean, dry'd, and ominous visag'd knave, Thou false and peremptory Steward, pray, For I will hang thee up in thine own chain. _Luc._ Good Sister do not choak him. _Bob._ Murder, murder. [_Exit._ _Cla._ Well: I shall meet with ye: _Lucio_, who bought this? 'Tis a reasonable good one; but there hangs one _Spain_'s Champion ne'er us'd truer: with this Staffe Old _Alvarez_ has led up men so close, They could almost spit in the Cannons mouth, Whilst I with that, and this well mounted, scour'd A Horse-troop through, and through, like swift desire, And seen poor rogues retire, all gore, and gash'd Like bleeding Shads. _Luc._ Bless us, Sister _Clara_. How desperately you talk: what d' ye call This Gun a dag? _Cla._ I'll give't thee: a _French_ petronel: You never saw my _Barbary_, the _Infanta_ Bestow'd upon me, as yet _Lucio_? Walk down, and see it. _Luc._ What into the Stable? Not I, the Jades will kick: the poor Groom there Was almost spoil'd the other day. _Cla._ Fie on thee, Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy Mother. _Luc._ When will you be a woman? _Enter_ Alvarez _and_ Bobadilla. _Cla._ Would I were none. But natures privy Seal assures me one. _Alv._ Thou anger'st me: can strong habitual custome Work with such Magick on the mind and manners, In spight of sex and nature? find out sirrah, Some skilful fighter. _Bob._ Yes Sir. _Alv._ I will rectifie, And redeem eithers proper inclination, Or bray 'em in a morter, and new mold 'em. [_Exit._ _Bob._ Believe your eyes, Sir, I tell you, we wash an _Ethiop_. _Cla._ I strike it for ten Duckets. _Alv._ How now _Clara_, Your Breeches on still? and your petticoat Not yet off _Lucio_? art thou not guelt? Or did the cold _Muscovite_ beget thee, That lay here Lieger in the last great frost? Art not thou _Clara_, turn'd a man indeed Beneath the girdle? and a woman thou? I'll have you search'd by ---- I strongly doubt; We must have these things mended: come goe in. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Vitelli _and_ Bobadilla. _Bob._ With _Lucio_ say you? there is for you. _Vit._ And there is for thee.