Enter Junius.

Jun. Here he is; have at him!

[Sings.

Pet. Well, gramercy; how dost thou?—He has found me,
Scented me out; the shame the devil owed me,
He has kept his day with.—And what news, Junius?

Jun. It was an old tale ten thousand times told,
Of a young lady was turn’d into mould,
Her life was lovely, her death it was bold.

Pet. A cruel rogue! now he has drawn pursuit on me,
He hunts me like a devil.—No more singing!
Thou hast got a cold: Come, let’s go drink some sack,
boy.

Jun. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Pet. Why dost thou laugh?
What mare’s nest hast thou found?

Jun. Ha, ha, ha!
I cannot laugh alone:—Decius! Demetrius!
Curius!—oh, my sides! ha, ha, ha, ha!
The strangest jest!

Pet. Pr’ythee no more.

Jun. The admirablest fooling!

Pet. Thou art the prettiest fellow!

Jun. Sirs!

Pet. Why, Junius,
Pr’ythee, away, sweet Junius?

Jun. Let me sing then.

Pet. Whoa, here’s a stir, now! Sing a song of sixpence!
By Heaven, if—pr’ythee—pox on’t, Junius!

Jun. I must either sing or laugh.

Pet. And what’s your reason?

Jun. What’s that to you?

Pet. And I must whistle

Jun. Do so.
Oh, I hear ’em coming.

Pet. I have a little business.

Jun. Thou shalt not go, believe it: What! a gentleman
Of thy sweet conversation?