Scene Second. In front of Barneses House

Enter Philip, Francis, and his Boy, from bowling.

Phil. Come on, Franke Goursey: you have good lucke to winne the game.

Fran. Why, tell me, ist not good, that never playd before upon your greene?

Phil. Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crownes; that makes it worse.

Fran. Let it not greeve thee, man; come ore to us;
We will devise some game to make you win
Your money backe againe, sweet Philip.

Phil. And that shall be ere long, and if I live:
But tell me, Francis, what good horses have yee,
To hunt this sommer?

Fra. Two or three jades, or so.

Phil. Be they but jades?

Fran. No, faith; my wag string here
Did founder one the last time that he rid,
The best gray nag that ever I laid my leg over.

Boy. You meane the flea bitten?

Fran. Good sir, the same.

Boy. And was the same the best that ere you rid on?

Fran. I, was it, sir.

Boy. I faith, it was not, sir.

Fran. No! where had I one so good?

Boy. One of my colour, and a better too.

Fran. One of your colour! I nere remember him;
One of that colour!

Boy. Or of that complexion.

Fran. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse?

Boy. The colour, sir.

Fran. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will—

Boy. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!

Fran. What, shal we have it?

Boy. Why, sir, I cannot paint.

Fran. Well, then, I can;
And I shall find a pensill for ye, sir.

Boy. Then I must finde the table, if you do.

Fran. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchen!

Boy. Looke how you chafe! you would be angry more,
If I should tell it you.

Fran. Go to, Ile anger ye, and if you do not.

Boy. Why, sir, the horse that I do meane
Hath a leg both straight and cleane,
That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flawe,
But is the best that ever ye saw;
A pretie rising knee, O knee!
It is as round as round may be;
The full flanke makes the buttock round:
This palfray standeth on no ground
When as my maister's on her backe,
If that he once do say but, ticke;
And if he pricke her, you shall see
Her gallop amaine, she is so free;
And if he give her but a nod,
She thinkes it is a riding rod;
And if hee'l have her softly go,
Then she trips it like a doe;
She comes so easie with the raine,
A twine thred turnes her backe againe;
And truly I did nere see yet
A horse play proudlier on the bit:
My maister with good managing
Brought her first unto the ring;
He likewise taught her to corvet,
To runne, and suddainlie to set;
Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race,
Nay, shee's apt to every pace;
And to proove her colour good,
A flea, enamourd of her blood,
Digd for chanels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck:
I thinke theres none that use to ride
But can her pleasant trot abide;
She goes so even upon the way,
She will not stumble in a day;
And when my maister—

Fra. What do I?

Boy. Nay, nothing, sir.

Phil. O, fie, Franke, fie!
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now,
I must needs say; perswade him first to speake,
Then chide him for it!—Tell me, prettie wag,
Where stands this prawncer, in what inne or stable?
Or, hath thy maister put her out to runne,
Then, in what field, what champion feeds this courser,
This well paste, bonnie steed that thou so praisest?

Boy. Faith, sir, I thinke——

Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke?

Bay. I thinke that you, sir, have bene askt by many,
But yet I never heard that yee tolde any.

Phil. Well, boy, then I will adde one more to many,
And aske thy maister where this jennet feeds.—
Come, Franke, tell me, nay, prethie, tell me, Franke,
My good horse-maister, tell me—by this light,
I will not steale her from thee; if I do,
Let me be held a felone to thy love.

Fran. No, Phillip, no.

Phil. What, wilt thou we[a]re a point but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

Enter Comes.

Com. Swounds, where be these timber turners, these trowle the bowles, these greene men, these—

Fran. What, what, sir?

Comes. These bowlers, sir.

Fra. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?

Coo. Why, I say they cannot be saved.

Fra. Your reason, sir?

Coo. Because they throw away their soules at every marke.

Fra. Their soules! how meane ye?

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the soule of our bowle.

Fra. Lord, how his wit holdes bias like a bowle!

Coo. Well, which is the bias?

Fra. This next to you.

Coo. Nay, turne it this way, then the bowle goes true.

Boy. Rub, rub!

Coo. Why rub?

Boy. Why, you overcast the marke, and misse the way.

Coo. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.

Phi. Dicke Coomes, me thinkes thou art very pleasant:
When gotst thou this mirrie humor?

Coo. In your fathers seller, the merriest place in th' house.

Phi. Then you have bene carowsing hard?

Coo. Yes, faith, 'tis our custome when your fathers men and we meete.

Phi. Thou art very welcome thether, Dicke.

Coo. By God, I thanke ye, sir, I thanke ye, sir: by God, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then I will do, if you have any quarrell in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paide a quarters wages for't, by Jesus.

Phi. Oh, this meate failer Dicke!
How well t'as made the apparell of his wit,
And brought it into fashion of an honor!—
Prethe, Dicke Coomes, but tell me how thou doost?

Coo. Faith, sir, like a poore man at service.

Phi. Or servingman.

Coo. Indeede, so called by the vulgar.

Phi. Why, where the devill hadst thou that word?

Coo. Oh, sir, you have the most eloquenst ale in all the world; our blunt soyle affoordes none such.

Fra. Phillip, leave talking with this drunken foole.—Say, sirra, where's my father?

Coo. 'Marrie, I thanke ye for my verie good cheere.'—'O Lord, it is not so much worth.'—'You see I am bolde with ye.'—'Indeed, you are not so bolde as welcome; I pray yee, come oftner.'—'Truly, I shall trouble ye.'—All these ceremonies are dispatcht betweene them, and they are gone.

Fra. Are they so?

Coo. I, before God, are they.

Fra. And wherefore came not you to call me, then?

Coo. Because I was loth to change my game.

Fra. What game?

Coo. You were at one sort of bowles, as I was at another.

Phi. Sirra, he meanes the buttery bowles of beere.

Coo. By God, sir, we tickled it.

Fra. Why, what a swearing keepes this drunken asse!—
Canst thou not say but sweare at every word?

Phi. Peace, do not marre his humour, prethie, Franke.

Coo. Let him alone; hee's a springall, he knowes not what belongs to an oath.

Fra. Sirra, be quiet, or I doe protest—

Coo. Come, come, what doe you protest?

Fra. By heaven, to crack your crowne.

Coo. To crack my crowne! I lay ye a crowne of that,
Lay it downe, and ye dare;
Nay, sbloud, ile venter a quarters wages of that.
Crack my crowne, quotha!

Fra. Will ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?

Coo. Urge yee, with a pox! who urges ye?
You might have said so much to a clowne,
Or one that had not been ore the sea to see fashions:
I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man.
Crack my crowne, and ye can.

Fra. And I can, ye rascall! [Offers to beat him.]

Phi. Hold, haire braine, holde! dost thou not see hees drunke?

Coo. Nay, let him come:
Though he be my masters sonne, I am my masters man,
And a man is a man in any ground of England.
Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death:
I will not budge an inche, no, sbloud, will I not.

Fran. Will ye not?

Phi. Stay, prithie, Franke.—Coomes, dost thou heare?

Coo. Heare me no heares:
Stand away, Ile trust none of you all.
If I have my backe against a cart wheele,
I would not care if the devill came.

Phi. Why, ye foole, I am your friend.

Coo. Foole on your face! I have a wife.

Fra. Shees a whore, then.

Coo. Shees as honest as Nan Lawson.

Phi. What she?

Coo. One of his whores.

Phi. Why, hath he so many?

Coo. I, as many as there be churches in London.

Phil. Why, thats a hundred and nine.

Boy. Faith, he lyes a hundred.

Phi. Then thou art a witnes to nine.

Boy. No, by God, Ile be witnes to none.

Coo. Now doe I stand like the George at Colbrooke.

Boy. No, thou standst like the Bull at S. Albones.

Coo. Boy, ye lye the hornes.

Boy. The bul's bitten; see how he buts!

Phil. Comes, Comes, put up, my friend and thou art friends.

Coo. Ile heare him say so first.

Phil. Franke, prethie doe; be friends, and tell him so.

Fra. Goe to, I am.

Boy. Put up, sir, and ye be a man, put up.

Coom. I am easily perswaded, boye.

Phil. Ah, ye mad slave!

Coomes. Come, come, a couple of whore-masters I found yee, and so I leave yee.

Exit.

Phil. Loe, Franke, doost thou not see hees drunke,
That twits thee with thy disposition?

Fra. What disposition?

Phil. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.

Fran. Nay, then—

Phil. Goe to, ye wag, tis well:
If ever yee get a wife, i faith Ile tell.
Sirra, at home we have a servingman;
Hees not humord bluntly as Coomes is,
Yet his condition makes me often merrie:
Ile tell thee, sirra, hees a fine neate fellow,
A spruce slave; I warrant ye, heele have
His cruell garters crosse about the knee,
His woollen hose as white as the driven snowe,
His shooes dry leather neat, and tyed with red ribbins,
A nose-gay bound with laces in his hat,
Bridelaces, sir, in's hat—an all greene hat,
Greene coverlet for such a grasse greene wit.
'The goose that graseth on the greene,' quoth he,
'May I eate on when you shall buried be!'
All proverbes is his speech, hee's proverbs all.

Fra. Why speakes he proverbs?

Phi. Because he would speake truth,
And proverbes, youle confesse, are olde said sooth.

Fra. I like this well, and one day Ile see him:
But shall we part?

Phil. Not yet, Ile bring you somewhat on your way,
And as we goe, betweene your boy and you
Ile know where that [brave] praunser stands at levery.

Fra. Come, come, you shall not.

Phil. I faith, I wil.

Exeunt.