Moments later, a small, sobbing figure would emerge—dirty as a rat and smelling pongier than the rottenest egg.

He's got beef over what you said.

He added not; and Satan bowing low / His gray diſſimulation, diſappear'd / Into thin Air diffuſ'd: for now began / Night with her ſullen wing to double-ſhade / The Deſert; Fowls in thir clay neſts were couch't; / And now wild Beaſts came forth the woods to roam.

[…] for if a Gentleman haue in hym any humble behauour, then Roysters do cal suche one by the name of a Loute, a Clynchpope, or one that knoweth no facions […]