Cro. You are very crank still.

      Tib. As crank as a holy Fryer, fed with hail-stones.

      But do ye bring us out to bait, like Bulls?

      Mast. Or are you weary of the charge ye are at?

      Turn us abroad again, let's jog Ladies;

      We are gross, and course, unfit for your sweet pleasures.

      Tib. Knock off our shooes, and turn's to grass.

      Cro. You are determined

      Still to be stubborn then: it well becomes ye.

      Tib. An humour Lady that contents a prisoner.

      A sullen fit sometimes serves for a second course.

      Jul. Ye may as well be kind,

      And gain our favours; gain meat and drink,

      And lodging to rest your bones.

      Tib. My bones have bore me thus long,

      And had their share of pains and recreations;

      If they fail now, they are no fair companions.

      Cro. Are ye thus harsh to all our Sex?

      Mast. We cannot be merry without a Fidler,

      Pray strike up your Tabors, Ladies.

      Cro. The fools despise us.

      Jul. We know ye are very hungry now.

      Tib. Yes 'tis very wholsom, Ladies;

      For we that have gross bodies, must be careful

      Have ye no piercing air to stir our stomachs?

      We are beholding to ye for our Ordinary.

      Jul. Why slaves, 'tis in our power to hang ye.

      Mast. Very likely.

      'Tis in our powers then to be hang'd, and scorn ye.

      Hanging's as sweet to us, as dreaming to you.

      Cro. Come, be more courteous.

      Jul. Do, and then ye shall be pleas'd, and have all necessaries.

      Tib. Give me some Ratsbane then.

      Cro. And why Ratsbane, Mounsieur?

      Tib. We live like vermine here, and eat up your cheese,

      Your mouldy cheese, that none but Rats would bite at;

      Therefore 'tis just that Ratsbane should reward us.

      We are unprofitable, and our Ploughs are broken;

      There is no hope of Harvest this year, Ladies.

      Jul. Ye shall have all content.

      Mast. I, and we'll serve your uses.

      I had rather serve hogs, there's more delight in't;

      Your greedy appetites are never satisfied;

      Just like hungry Camels, sleeping or waking

      You chew the cud still.

      Cro. By this hand we'll starve ye.

      Mast. 'Tis a noble courtesie.

      I had as lief ye should famish me, as founder me:

      To be jaded to death, is only fit for a hackney.

      Here be certain Tarts of Tarr about me,

      And parcels of potargo in my Jerkin,

      As long as these last.

      Jul. Which will not last ever.

      Tib. Then we'll eat one another like good fellows.

      A shoulder of his for a haunch of mine.

      Jul. 'Tis excellent.

      Tib. 'Twill be as we'll dress it Ladies.

      Cro. Why sure ye are not men?

      Mast. Ye had best come search us,

      A Seaman is seldom without a salt Eele.

      Tib. I am bad enough,

      And in my nature a notorious wencher;

      And yet ye make me blush at your immodesty.

      Tell me good Master, didst ever see such things?

      Mast. I could like 'em, though they were lewdly given,

      If they could say no; [but fie on 'em,

      They gape like Oysters.]

      Tib. Well, ye may hang, or starve us;

      But your commanding impudence shall never fear us.

      Had ye by blushing signs, soft cunings, crept into us,

      And shew'd us your necessities: we had met your purposes,

      Supply'd your wants. We are no Saints Ladies;

      I love a good wench, as I love my life,

      And with my life I will maintain my love:

      But such a sordid impudence I'll spit at.

      Let's to our dens again. Come noble Master.

      You know our minds, Ladies:

      This is the faith in which we'll die.