Foul.  Then for your Lordships quips, and quicke jests, why Gesta Romanorum were nothing to them, a my vertue.

Fur.  Well, well, well, I will heare thee no more, I will heare thee no more, good Captaine.  Tha’s an excellent wit, and thou shalt have Crownes, a mine honour, and now Knights, and Captaine, the foole you told me off, do you all know him?

Goos.  I know him best my Lord.

Fur.  Doe you sir Gyles? to him then, good Knight, and be here with him and here, and here, and here againe; I meane paint him unto us sir Gyles, paint him lively, lively now, my good Knightly boy.

Goos.  Why my good Lord? he will nere be long from us, because we are all mortall you know.

Fur.  Very true.

Goos.  And as soone as ever we goe to Dinner, and Supper together—­

Rud.  Dinner and supper together, whens that troe?

Goos.  A will come you in amongst us, with his Cloake buttond, loose under his chinne.

Rud.  Buttond loose, my Lord?

Goos.  I my Lord, buttond loose still, and both the flaps cast over before both his shoulders afore him.

Rud.  Both shoulders afore him?

Fur.  From before him he meanes; forth good sir Gyles.

Goos.  Like a potentate, my Lord?

Rud.  Much like a Potentate indeed.

Goos.  For all the world like a Potentate, sir Cut. ye know.

Rud.  So Sir.

Goos.  All his beard nothing but haire.

Rud.  Or something else.

Goos.  Or something else as you say.

Foul.  Excellent good.

Goos.  His Mellons, or his Apricocks, Orrenges alwaies in an uncleane hand-kerchiffe, very cleanely, I warrant you, my Lord.

Fur.  A good neate foole, sir Gyles, of mine honour.

Goose.  Then his fine words that he sets them in, concaticall, a fine Annisseede wench foole, upon ticket, and so forth.

Fur.  Passing strange words beleeve me.

Goos.  Knoth every man at the table, though he never saw him before, by sight, and then will he foole you so finely my Lord, that he will make your hart ake, till your eyes runne over.

Fur.  The best that ever I heard, pray mercy, good Knight, for thy merry description.  Captaine, I give thee twenty companies of commendations, never to be cashierd.

    Enter Iacke, and Will on the other side.

Am.  Save your Lordship.

Fur.  My pretty cast-of Merlins,[40] what prophecies with your little maestershippes?

Ia.  Things that cannot come to passe my Lord, the worse our fortunes.

Foul.  Why, whats the matter Pages?

Rud.  How now, my Ladies foysting[41] hounds.