leman i'th' black?

_Enter_ Shorthose.

_Short._ I'th' torn black?

_Isab._ Yes, the same Sir.

_Short._ What would your Worship with him?

_Isab._ Why, my Worship would know his name, and what he is.

_Short._ 'Is nothing, he is a man, and yet he is no man.

_Isab._ You must needs play the fool.

_Short._ 'Tis my profession.

_Isab._ How is he a man, and no man?

_Short._ He's a begger, only the sign of a man, the bush pull'd
down, which shows the house stands emptie.

_Isab._ What's his calling?

_Short._ They call him begger.

_Isab._ What's his kindred?

_Short._ Beggers.

_Isab._ His worth?

_Short._ A learned begger, a poor Scholar.

_Isab._ How does he live?

_Short._ Like worms, he eats old Books.

_Isab._ Is _Valentine_ his Brother.

_Short._ His begging Brother.

_Isab._ What may his name be?

_Short._ _Orson_.

_Isab._ Leave your fooling.

_Short._ You had as good say, leave your living.

_Isab._ Once more tell me his name directly.

_Short._ I'le be hang'd first, unless I heard him Christned, but I
can tell what foolish people call him.

_Isab._ What?

_Short._ _Francisco_.

_Isab._ Where lies this learning, Sir?

_Short._ In _Pauls_ Church yard forsooth.

_Isab._ I mean the Gentleman, fool.

_Short._ O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where, that's
no where.

_Luce._ You have glean'd since you came to _London_: in the
Country, _Shorthose_, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold
coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured
you with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you Ale, so fortified
your mazard, that now there's no talking to you.

_Isab._ 'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.

_Short._ I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so long to
be an Ass.

_Luce._ But say now, _Shorthose_, my Lady should remove into
the Country.

_Short._ I had as lieve she should remove to Heaven, and as soon I
would undertake to follow her.

_Luce._ Where no old Charnico is, nor no Anchoves, nor Master
such-a-one, to meet at the Rose, and bring my Lady, such-a-ones chief
Chamber-maid.

_Isab._ No bouncing healths to this brave Lad, dear
_Shorthose_, nor down o'th' knees to that illustrious Lady.

_Luce._ No fiddles, nor no lusty noise of drawer, carry this pottle
to my Father _Shorthose_.

_Isab._ No plays, nor gaily foists, no strange Embassadors to run
and wonder at, till thou beest oyl, and then come home aga