for your cold. Muse not at this manage of my bounty. It is fit we
should thank fortune, double to nature, for any benefit she
confers upon us; besides, it is your imperfection, but my solace.

PAR [SPEAKS AS HAVING A COLD.] I thank your worship; so is it
mine, now.

MOR: What says he, Cutbeard?

CUT: He says, praesto, sir, whensoever your worship needs him, he
can be ready with the like. He got this cold with sitting up late,
and singing catches with cloth-workers.

MOR: No more. I thank him.

PAR: God keep your worship, and give you much joy with your fair
spouse.--[COUGHS.] uh! uh! uh!

MOR: O, O! stay Cutbeard! let him give me five shillings of my
money back. As it is bounty to reward benefits, so is it equity
to mulct injuries. I will have it. What says he?

CUT: He cannot change it, sir.

MOR: It must be changed.

CUT [ASIDE TO PARSON.]: Cough again.

MOR: What says he?