out the posset Ale, most artificially.

_Eug_. Forth, good Lord _Tales_.

_Pene_. Nay, good my Lord no more; you have spoken for him thoroughly I
warrant you.

_Hip_. I lay my life _Cupid_ has shot my sister in love with him out of
your lips, my Lord.

_Eug_. Well, come in, my Lords, and take a bad Dinner with me now, and
we will all goe with you at night to a better supper with the Lord and
Lady _Furnifall_.

_King_. _Tale_. We attend you, honorable Ladies.

_Exeunt_.

_Actvs Tertii_.

SCAENA PRIMA.

_Enter Rudesby, Goosecappe_.

_Rud_. _Bullaker_.

_Bul_. I, Sir.

_Rud_. Ride, and catch the Captaines Horse.

_Bul_. So I doe Sir.

_Rud_. I wonder, Sir _Gyles_, you wood let him goe so, and not ride
after him.

_Goos_. Wood I might never be mortall sir _Cutt_: if I rid not after
him, till my horse sweat, so that he had nere a dry thread on him, and
hollod, and hollod to him to stay him, till I had thought my fingers
ends wood have gon off with hollowings; Ile be sworne to yee, & yet he
ran his way like a _Diogenes_, and would never stay for us.

_Rud_. How shall wee doe to get the lame Captaine to London, now his
horse is gone?

_Goos_. Why? he is but a lame jad neyther, Sir _Moyle_, we shall soone
our'take him I warrent ye.

_Rud_. And yet thou saist thou gallopst after him as fast as thou
coodst, and coodst not Catch him; I lay my life some Crabfish has
bitten thee by the tongue, thou speakest so backward still.

_Goos_. But heres all the doubt, sir _Cutt_: if no body shoold catch him
now, when he comes at London, some boy or other wood get uppe on him,
and ride him hot into the water to wash him; Ile bee sworne I followed
one that rid my Horse into the Thames, till I was up tooth knees
hetherto; and if it had not beene for feare of going over shooes,
because I am troubled with the rheume, I wood have taught him to wash my
Horse when he was hot yfaith.

_Enter Fowleweathter_.

How now sweet Captaine, dost feele any ease in thy paine yet?

_Rud_. Ease in his paine quoth you, has good lucke if he feele ease in
paine, I thinke, but wood any asse in the World ride downe such a Hill
as High-gate is, in such a frost as this, and never light.

_Foul_. Cods precious, sir _Cutt_: your _Frenchman_ never lights
I tell ye.

_Goos_. Light, sir _Cutt_! Slight, and I had my horse againe, theres
nere a paltry English frost an them all shood make