Lil.  One word about the linnen; Ile be ready, And rest your worships still. And.  And Ile rest w’yee, You shall see what rest ’twill be:  Are ye so nimble?  A man had need have ten paire of eares to watch you.

Bri.  Wait on your Master, for I know he wants ye,
And keep him in his studie, that the noise
Do not molest him:  I will not faile my Lilly—­
Come in sweet hearts, all to their several duties. Exeunt.

And. are you kissing ripe, Sir?  Double but my farm
And kisse her till thy heart ake; these smocke vermin,
How eagerly they leap at old mens kisses,
They lick their lipps at profit, not at pleasure;
And if’t were not for th’ scurvie name of Cuckold,
He should lye with her, I know shee’l labour at length
With a good lordship.  If he had a wife now,
But that’s all one, lie fit him:  I must up
Unto my Master, hee’l be mad with studie—­ Exit.

Actus III. Scoena III.

      Charles.

What a noise is in this house, my head is broken,
Within a Parenthesis, in every corner,
As if the earth were shaken with some strange Collect,
There are stirres and motions.  What Planet rules this house?

      Enter Andrew.

Who’s there? And.  Tis I Sir faithful Andrew. Cha.  Come neere
And lay thine eare downe, hear’st no noise? And.  The Cookes
Are chopping hearbs and mince meat to make pies,
And breaking Marrow-bones—­ Char.  Can they set them againe?

And.  Yes, yes, in brothes and puddings, and they grow stronger
For the’ use of any man. Cha.  What speaking’s that? 
Sure there is a massacre. And.  Of Pigs and Geese Sir,
And Turkeys for the spit.  The Cookes are angry Sirs,
And that makes up the medly. Cha.  Do they thus
At every dinner?  I nere mark’d them yet,
Nor know who is a Cook. And.  Th’are sometimes sober,
And then they beat as gently as a Tabor.

Char.  What loads are these? Andr.  Meat, meat, Sir, for the Kitchin,
And stinking Fowles the Tenants have sent in;
They’l nere be found out at a general eating;
And there’s fat Venison, Sir. Cha.  What’s that? And.  Why Deer,
Those that men fatten for their private pleasures,
And let their tenants starve upon the Commons.

Char.  I’ve red of Deer, but yet I nere eat any.

And.  There’s a Fishmongers boy with Caviar Sir, Anchoves and Potargo, to make ye drink.

Cha.  Sure these are modern, very modern meats,
For I understand ’m not. And.  No more do’s any man
From Caca merda or a substance worse,
Till they be greas’d with oyle, and rub’d with onions,
And then flung out of doors, they are rare Sallads.

Cha.  And why is all this, prithee tell me Andrew! 
Are there any Princes to dine here to day? 
By this abundance sure there should be Princes;
I’ve read of entertainment for the gods
At half this charge, will not six dishes serve ’em? 
I never had but one, and that a small one.