OLIVER.
Aye, and well said, cocknell, and bo-bell too: what,
doest think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer
vere thee.

LANCELOT.
Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends.

WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver.

FLOWERDALE.
Is your name master Oliver, I pray you?

OLIVER.
What tit and be tit, and grieve you.

FLOWERDALE.
No, but I'd gladly know if a man might not have
a foolish plot out of master Oliver to work upon.

OLIVER.
Work thy plots upon me! stand aside:--work thy
foolish plots upon me! chill so use thee, thou weart
never so used since thy dame bound thy head. Work
upon me?

FLOWERDALE.
Let him come, let him come.