SETTER. Why, how now! prithee who art? Lay by that worldly face
and produce your natural vizor.

LUCY. No, sirrah, I'll keep it on to abuse thee and leave thee
without hopes of revenge.

SETTER. Oh! I begin to smoke ye: thou art some forsaken Abigail
we have dallied with heretofore--and art come to tickle thy
imagination with remembrance of iniquity past.

LUCY. No thou pitiful flatterer of thy master's imperfections;
thou maukin made up of the shreds and parings of his superfluous
fopperies.

SETTER. Thou art thy mistress's foul self, composed of her sullied
iniquities and clothing.

LUCY. Hang thee, beggar's cur, thy master is but a mumper in love,
lies canting at the gate; but never dares presume to enter the
house.

SETTER. Thou art the wicket to thy mistress's gate, to be opened
for all comers. In fine thou art the highroad to thy mistress.

LUCY. Beast, filthy toad, I can hold no longer, look and tremble.
[Unmasks.]

SETTER. How, Mrs. Lucy!