Now, now, now. [The Musick play his Note, and the dead
men rise; but cannot get in order.
O Lord, O Lord!
Out, out, out! Did ever men spoil a good thing so? no figure, no ear, no time, no thing? you dance worse than the Angels in Harry the Eight, or the fat Spirits in The Tempest, I gad.
Now mark my Note in Effaut flat. Strike up Musick.
Now. [As he rises up hastily, he tumbles and falls down again.
Ah, gadsookers, I have broke my Nose.