To what they were before. My pretty Cosine,
Blessing vpon you

Wife. Father'd he is,
And yet hee's Father-lesse

Rosse. I am so much a Foole, should I stay longer
It would be my disgrace, and your discomfort.
I take my leaue at once.

Exit Rosse.

Wife. Sirra, your Fathers dead,
And what will you do now? How will you liue?
Son. As Birds do Mother

Wife. What with Wormes, and Flyes?
Son. With what I get I meane, and so do they

Wife. Poore Bird,
Thou'dst neuer Feare the Net, nor Lime,
The Pitfall, nor the Gin

Son. Why should I Mother?
Poore Birds they are not set for:
My Father is not dead for all your saying

Wife. Yes, he is dead:
How wilt thou do for a Father?
Son. Nay how will you do for a Husband?