TIB. Why, what's the matter?
COB. Oh, he hath basted me rarely, sumptuously: but I have
it here will sauce him, oh, the doctor, the honestest old
Trojan in all Italy, I do honour the very flea of his dog:
a plague on him, he put me once in a villainous filthy fear:
marry, it vanish'd away like the smoke of tobacco: but I was
smok'd soundly first, I thank the devil, and his good angel
my guest: well, wife, or Tib, (which you will) get you in,
and lock the door, I charge you; let nobody into you, not
Bobadilla himself, nor the devil in his likeness; you are a
woman; you have flesh and blood enough in you; therefore be
not tempted; keep the door shut upon all comers.
TIB. I warrant you there shall nobody enter here without my
consent.
COB. Nor with your consent, sweet Tib, and so I leave you.
TIB. It's more than you know, whether you leave me so.
COB. How?
TIB. Why, sweet.
COB. Tut, sweet or sour, thou art a flower.
Keep close thy door, I ask no more.
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