THO. No, their lips were seal'd with kisses, and the voice Drown'd in a flood of joy at their arrival, Had lost her motion, state, and faculty. Cob, which of them was't that first kiss'd my wife? (My sister, I should say,) my wife, alas, I fear not her: ha? who was it, say'st thou? COB. By my troth, sir, will you have the truth of it? THO. Oh ay, good Cob: I pray thee. COB. God's my judge, I saw nobody to be kiss'd, unless they would have kiss'd the post in the middle of the warehouse; for there I left them all, at their tobacco, with a pox. THO. How? were they not gone in then ere thou cam'st? COB. Oh no, sir. THO. Spite of the devil, what do I stay here then? Cob, follow me. [EXIT THO.] COB. Nay, soft and fair, I have eggs on the spit; I cannot go yet sir: now am I for some divers reasons hammering, hammering revenge: oh, for three or four gallons of vinegar, to sharpen my wits: Revenge, vinegar revenge, russet revenge; nay, an he had not lien in my house, 'twould never have grieved me; but being my guest, one that I'll be sworn my wife has lent him her smock off her back, while his own shirt has been at washing: pawned her neckerchers for clean bands for him: sold almost all my platters to buy him tobacco; and yet to see an ingratitude wretch strike his host; well, I hope to raise up an host of furies for't: here comes M. Doctor. [ENTER DOCTOR CLEMENT, LORENZO SENIOR, PETO.] CLEM. What's Signior Thorello gone? PET. Ay, sir. CLEM. Heart of me, what made him leave us so abruptly? How now, sirrah; what make you here? what would you have, ha? COB. An't please your worship, I am a poor neighbour of your worship's. CLEM. A neighbour of mine, knave? COB. Ay, sir, at the sign of the Water-tankard, hard by the Green Lattice: I have paid scot and lot there any time this eighteen years. CLEM. What, at the Green Lattice? COB. No sir: to the parish: marry, I have seldom scaped scot-free at the Lattice. CLEM. So: but what business hath my neighbour? COB. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your worship. CLEM. Of me, knave? peace of me, knave? did I e'er hurt thee? did I ever threaten thee? or wrong thee? ha? COB. No, God's my comfort, I mean your worship's warrant, for one that hath wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an I could by any means compass it. LOR. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him? COB. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour by his means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear, by the laws of the land, that he kill'd me. CLEM. How? how, knave? swear he kill'd thee? what pretext? what colour hast thou for that?