For you are altogether gouerned by humors:
Lye still ye Theefe, and heare the Lady sing in Welsh

Hotsp. I had rather heare (Lady) my Brach howle in
Irish

Lady. Would'st haue thy Head broken?
Hotsp. No

Lady. Then be still

Hotsp. Neyther, 'tis a Womans fault

Lady. Now God helpe thee

Hotsp. To the Welsh Ladies Bed

Lady. What's that?
Hotsp. Peace, shee sings.

Heere the Lady sings a Welsh Song.

Hotsp. Come, Ile haue your Song too

Lady. Not mine, in good sooth

Hotsp. Not yours, in good sooth?
You sweare like a Comfit-makers Wife:
Not you, in good sooth; and, as true as I liue;
And, as God shall mend me; and, as sure as day: