Accut.  What will ye? heere he is, you minime, that will be friend with friends and foe with foes; and you that will defie Hercules, and out-brave Mars and feares not the Devil; passe, bladder, ile make ye swell.

Scil.  By Gods-lid, if I had knowne it had bene you, I would not have said so to your face.
                         [Exeunt.

Accut.  Away, with your Champion, goe.

Grac.  This was excellentlye performed, ifaith a better breathing then a game at bowles.

Accut.  Theile give you the good salve at any time this month, for I am sure they have salving enough for so long.

Grac.  I pittie the foole yfaith, but the tother Horseleach I wish his blowes trebled.  I converst with him, but a Rogue so stuft with the lybrary of new minted[261] words, so tearing the sence, I never met with.

Accut.  But now we have spoilde our determinate dinner at my hostesse of the Hobbye; we shall nowe bee knowne.

Grac.  That holds well still, I am taken for a prooved friend, and thou shalt be disguised, till, I have wrought a league by vertue of a pottle of Canarie.

Acut.  Content, mine Host shall be accessarie and ile be a serviter to observe myracles.

Grac.  They are good subjects for idle houres:—­but soft, what second course is entring heere?

    Enter Phy., Bos, and Boy.

Phy. For I did but kisse her; Bos, how lik’st thou my relish?

Bos.  Oh sir, relish but your licour, as you doe your song, you may goe drunke to bed any day in the weeke.

Phy. Sister,[262] awake, close not, &c.  Does my face hold colour still?

Bos.  I, and you would but scaviage the pavilion of your nose.

Gra.  I, marrie, Accutus, how lik’st thou this Gentlewoman Gallant?

Accut.  A good states-man, for common-wealth of Brownists; the Rogue hates a Church like the Counter.

Gra.  I, and if my Ladie Argentile were dead, he wold rather live upon almes then fall to worke.

Accut.  So he might have tolleration.—­What, shal’s close with them?

Gra.  In any case, but in some mild imbrace, for if we should continue thus rough, we should be shunned like an Appoplex.

Accut.  Gallants, the fortune of the day runs with ye:  what all at mumchance?[263] how is’t? how is’t?

Phy.  Sir, I think twas you bestowed some abuse of me tother day.

Accu.  Which I would wipe out of your memorie With satisfaction of a double courtesie.

Phy.  I accept it ifaith, sir, I am not prone to anger, I assure ye the following night knew not my anger.  Your acquaintance, Signior.

Gra.  Fye, without ceremony lets yoake this triplicity as we did in the daies of olde, with mirth and melody.