surely.

_Wel_. You told him when his rage was set a tilt, and so he crackt your
Canons. I hope he has not hurt your gentle reading: But shall we see these
Gentlewomen to night.

_Rog_. Have patience Sir until our fellow _Nicholas_ be deceast, that is,
asleep: for so the word is taken: to sleep to dye, to dye to sleep, a very
figure Sir.

_Wel_. Cannot you cast another for the Gentlewomen?

_Rog_. Not till the man be in his bed, his grave: his grave, his bed: the
very same again Sir. Our Comick Poet gives the reason sweetly; _Plenus
rimarum est_, he is full of loope-holes, and will discover to our
Patroness.

_Wel_. Your comment Sir has made me understand you.

_Enter_ Martha _the_ Ladies _Sister_, _and_ Younglove, _to them with a
Posset_.

_Rog_. Sir be addrest, the graces do salute you with the full bowl of
plenty. Is our old enemy entomb'd?

_Abig_. He's safe.

_Rog_. And does he snore out supinely with the Poet?

_Mar_. No, he out-snores the Poet.