Coach cushions.

_Short._ Will it not rain, no conjuring abroad, nor no devices to
stop this journey?

_Rog._ Why go now, why now, why o'th' sudden now? what preparation,
what horses have we ready, what provision laid in i'th' Country?

_Hum._ Not an egge I hope.

_Rog._ No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the devil.

_Short._ I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come
up again.

_Hum._ What sayes the Steward?

_Rog._ He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of his
haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie mare, for his own
nagge.

_Short._ And she may break his neck, and save the journy. Oh
_London_ how I love thee!

_Hum._ I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had, refuse me if
I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag, men are men.

_Short._ For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed
at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the
Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her