Cit . Why, this is well, cony; but if Ralph were hot once,
thou shouldst see more.

[Music .

Wife . The fiddlers go again, husband.

Cit . Ay, Nell; but this is scurvy music. I gave the whoreson gallows money, and I think he has not got me the waits of Southwark: if I hear ’em not anon, I’ll twinge him by the ears. —You musicians, play Baloo!

Wife . No, good George, let’s ha’ Lachrymæ!

Cit . Why, this is it, cony.

Wife . It’s all the better, George. Now, sweet lamb, what story is that painted upon the cloth? the Confutation of St. Paul?

Cit . No, lamb; that’s Ralph and Lucrece.

Wife . Ralph and Lucrece! which Ralph? our Ralph?

Cit . No, mouse; that was a Tartarian.

Wife . A Tartarian! Well, I would the fiddlers had done, that we might see our Ralph again!]