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Enter Sir Toby, who runs and embraces them.
Sir Toby. My Ganimed—My Hylas—
Ang. My Jupiter.
Cons. My Hercules.
Sir Toby. My dear little Sparks of Love, let me kiss ye. You're lucky Rogues both—Wrapt in your Mothers Smocks Begad—There's not a Lady in Town but lies at your mercy—(to Ang.) For your part, my little Cupid, my Lady Dorimen's your own, the least Thrust throws her flat e'gad, just you know how—I met her this minute, and she gave me such Look, such sweet Ogles, as thus d'ye see, and thus; so very dying e'gad, it made my heart ake to see it.
Ang. Alas! poor Lady—If she languishes in earnest, she knows her Remedy, Sir Toby.
Sir Toby. And that's heartily said i' faith: Well, she for a willing Mistress, and old Toby for a hearty Pimp, I'll say't we are the best in Christendom: But hark—I had like to have forgot—This 'tis to have so much Occupation at a time—(to Cons.) see here my Mark—Anthony.
This curious Web, where all their Fancies shine.
Your four Mistresses beg you to accept of this Bracelet, 'tis the work of all four, compos'd of their own hairs, and wrought with their own hands.
Cons. A thousand Thanks, dear Sir Toby—all your Offices are friendly.
Sir Toby. Hush! hush! who comes here? what, a Swarm of Beaux and Froes?
My Lord, your Lordship's—Madam, your most obedient—That's my little Lord Wagsan—That's fine Mrs. Wrigglebum.
