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

William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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