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So am I; my heart is a fiddle; the strings are rozend with ioy that my other young Mr. is come home, & my tongue the sticke that makes the fiddle squeake. Hen. Come hither, leave your fooling & tell me truely: didst sleepe to night or no? Buz. Sleepe? Hen. Didst heare nothing? Buz. Not in my sleepe. Hen. Collect thy sences; when thou wert awake didst thou heare nothing? Buz. Nothing. Hen.
The Town Waites whome I appointed to come and visitt us. Suc. 'Twas well donn: have you ere a good song? Tim. Yes, they have many. Suc. But are they bawdy? come, sir, I see by your simpring it is you that sings, but do not squeake like a French Organ-pipe nor make faces as if you were to sing a Dirge. Grimes. Well, sir, this is indifferent Musicke, trust my judgment. Crac.
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