Io.  I am a page to a Courtier.

Mop.  And I a Boy to a Shepheard.

Fris.  Thou art the Apple-Squier[113] to an Eawe, And thou sworne brother to a bale[114] of false dice.

Io.  What art thou?

Fris.  I am Boy to a Raunger.

Io.  An Out-lawe by authoritie, one that neuer sets marke of his own goods nor neuer knowes how he comes by other mens.

Mop.  That neuer knowes his cattell but by their hornes.

Fris.  Sirrha, so you might haue said of your maister sheep.

Io.  I, marry, this takes fier like touch powder, and goes off with a huffe.

Fris.  They come of crick-cracks, and shake their tayles like a squib.

Io.  Ha, you Rogues, the very steele of my wit shall strike fier from the flint of your vnderstandings; haue you not heard of me?

Mop.  Yes, if you be the Ioculo that I take you for, we haue heard of your exployts for cosoning of some seuen and thirtie Alewiues in the Villages here about.

Io.  A wit as nimble as a Sempsters needle or a girles finger at her Buske poynt.

Mop.  Your iest goes too low, sir.

Fris.  O but tis a tickling iest.

Io.  Who wold haue thought to haue found this in a plaine villaine that neuer woare better garment than a greene Ierkin?

Fris.  O Sir, though you Courtiers haue all the honour you haue not all the wit.

Mop.  Soft sir, tis not your witte can carry it away in this company.

Io.  Sweet Rogues, your companie to me is like musick to a wench at midnight when she lies alone and could wish,—­yea, marry could she.

Fris.  And thou art as welcome to me as a new poking stick to a Chamber mayd.

Mop.  But, soft; who comes here?

    Enter the Faieries, singing and dauncing.

      By the moone we sport and play,
      With the night begins our day;
      As we daunce, the deaw doth fall;
      Trip it little vrchins all,
      Lightly as the little Bee,
      Two by two and three by three: 
      And about go wee, and about go wee.[115]

Io.  What Mawmets[116] are these?

Fris.  O they be the Fayries that haunt these woods.

Mop.  O we shall be pincht most cruelly.

1 Fay.  Will you haue any musick sir?

2 Fay.  Will you haue any fine musicke?

3 Fay.  Most daintie musicke?

Mop.  We must set a face on’t now; there’s no flying; no, Sir, we are very merrie, I thanke you.

1 Fay.  O but you shall, Sir.

Fris.  No, I pray you, saue your labour.

2 Fay.  O, Sir, it shall not cost you a penny.

Io.  Where be your Fiddles?