_Rud_. Slydd, heres neyther Torch, nor Lacquay, me thinks.

_Foul_. _O mon dieu_.

_Rud_. O doe not sweare Captaine.

_Foul_. Your Frenchman ever sweares, Sir _Cutt_, upon the lacke of his
Lacquay, I assure you.

_Goos_. See heere he comes, and my Ladies two pages, they have been
tickling the vanity ont yfaith.



SCAENA TERTIA.


_Enter to them Iack, Bullaker, Will_.

_Ia_. Captaine _Fowleweather_, my Lady the Countes _Eugenia_ commends
her most kindly to you, and is determined to morrowe morning earely, if
it be a frost, to take her Coach to Barnet to bee nipt; where if it
please you, to meete her, and accompany her homewarde, joyning your wit
with the frost, and helpe to nip her, She does not doubt but tho you had
a sad supper, you will have a joyfull breakefast.

_Foul_. I shall indeed, my deare youth.

_Rud_. Why Captaine I abus'd thee, I see: I said the Ladies respected
thee not, and now I perceive the widow is in love with thee.