e 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?

3 _