from henceforward I'll keep my wit for more refined spirits; you shall
be paid with dirt;--there's money for you.

_Bib_. Nay, good sir.

_Lov_. What's your sum? tell it out: will the money burn your
fingers? Sirrah, boy, fetch my suit with the gold-lace at sleeves,
from tribulation.

[_Gives him gold. Exit Boy_.] Mr Taylor, I shall turn the better
bill-man[A], and knock that little coxcomb of yours, if you do not
answer me what I owe you.

[Footnote A: Alluding to the ancient weapon called the bill; a
never-failing source of puns in old plays.]

_Bib_. Pray, sir, trouble not yourself; 'tis nothing; i'feck now
'tis not.

_Lov_. How nothing, sir?

_Fran_. An't, please your worship, it was seventeen pounds and
a noble yesterday at noon, your worship knows: And then your worship
came home ill last night, and complained of your worship's head; and
I sent for three dishes of tea for your good worship, and that was six
pence more, and please your worship's honour.

_Lov_. Well; there's eighteen pieces, tell 'em.

_Bib_. I say, Frances, do not take 'em.