Dol. Ah, you sweet little Rogue, you: alas, poore Ape, how thou sweat'st? Come, let me wipe thy Face: Come on, you whorson Chops: Ah Rogue, I loue thee: Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth fiue of Agamemnon, and tenne times better then the nine Worthies: ah Villaine
Fal. A rascally Slaue, I will tosse the Rogue in a Blanket
Dol. Doe, if thou dar'st for thy heart: if thou doo'st, Ile canuas thee betweene a paire of Sheetes. Enter Musique.
Page. The Musique is come, Sir
Fal. Let them play: play Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol. A Rascall, bragging Slaue: the Rogue fled from me like Quick-siluer
Dol. And thou followd'st him like a Church: thou whorson little tydie Bartholmew Bore-pigge, when wilt thou leaue fighting on dayes, and foyning on nights, and begin to patch vp thine old Body for Heauen? Enter the Prince and Poines disguis'd.
Fal. Peace (good Dol) doe not speake like a Deathshead: doe not bid me remember mine end
Dol. Sirrha, what humor is the Prince of? Fal. A good shallow young fellow: hee would haue made a good Pantler, hee would haue chipp'd Bread well
Dol. They say Poines hath a good Wit
Fal. Hee a good Wit? hang him Baboone, his Wit is as thicke as Tewksburie Mustard: there is no more conceit in him, then is in a Mallet
Dol. Why doth the Prince loue him so then? Fal. Because their Legges are both of a bignesse: and hee playes at Quoits well, and eates Conger and Fennell, and drinkes off Candles ends for Flap-dragons, and rides the wilde-Mare with the Boyes, and iumpes vpon Ioyn'dstooles, and sweares with a good grace, and weares his Boot very smooth, like vnto the Signe of the Legge; and breedes no bate with telling of discreete stories: and such other Gamboll Faculties hee hath, that shew a weake Minde, and an able Body, for the which the Prince admits him; for the Prince himselfe is such another: the weight of an hayre will turne the Scales betweene their Haberdepois
Prince. Would not this Naue of a Wheele haue his Eares cut off? Poin. Let vs beat him before his Whore
Prince. Looke, if the wither'd Elder hath not his Poll claw'd like a Parrot
Poin. Is it not strange, that Desire should so many yeeres out-liue performance? Fal. Kisse me Dol
Prince. Saturne and Venus this yeere in Coniunction? What sayes the Almanack to that? Poin. And looke whether the fierie Trigon, his Man, be not lisping to his Masters old Tables, his Note-Booke, his Councell-keeper? Fal. Thou do'st giue me flatt'ring Busses
Dol. Nay truely, I kisse thee with a most constant heart
Fal. I am olde, I am olde
Dol. I loue thee better, then I loue ere a scuruie young Boy of them all
Fal. What Stuffe wilt thou haue a Kirtle of? I shall receiue Money on Thursday: thou shalt haue a Cappe to morrow. A merrie Song, come: it growes late, wee will to Bed. Thou wilt forget me, when I am gone
Dol. Thou wilt set me a weeping, if thou say'st so: proue that euer I dresse my selfe handsome, till thy returne: well, hearken the end
Fal. Some Sack, Francis
Prin. Poin. Anon, anon, Sir
Fal. Ha? a Bastard Sonne of the Kings? And art not thou Poines, his Brother? Prince. Why thou Globe of sinfull Continents, what a life do'st thou lead? Fal. A better then thou: I am a Gentleman, thou art a Drawer
Prince. Very true, Sir: and I come to draw you out by the Eares