THE
SWAGGERING
DAMSELL.
A COMEDIE.

Actus I. Scena I.

Enter Hilts, Roger, and Rowland; Roger with a Napkin
on his sleeve, and a silver bowl in's hand.

Rog.

Ome Hilts, one cup more.

Hilts, Not a drop, I know they have din by
this time, and if I shu'd be out oth' way,
when my master comes, he would raile, that
the noyle of an Oyster wench wu'd not be
halfe so divelish.

Row. Come, come, one luftie dish now ith' bottome oth'
cellar's worth all the rest —

Rog. Hilts. A way with your number 4. it makes rattle-bagges and windmills in my guts, I cannot endure it.

Rog. Come, come, I warrant ye, it will not, prethee come.

Hilt. Not? Why I me blowne wee't already like a Lang-hire Bag-pipe upon a May day; and befides, tis so weake; that a man cannot keepe it alive while he throwes it in's guts, when thou comst to our house Ile give thee a cup of Beere will make thy nose cry twang Roger.

B

Rog.