sister?

HES. Yes, faith, when they come lightly.

BIA. Ay, but if your servant should hear you, he would
take it heavily.

HES. No matter, he is able to bear.

BIA. So are asses.

HES. So is he.

PROS. Signior Matheo, who made these verses? they are
excellent good.

MAT. O God, sir, it's your pleasure to say so, sir.
Faith, I made them extempore this morning.

PROS. How extempore?

MAT. Ay, would I might be damn'd else; ask Signior Bobadilla.
He saw me write them, at the -- (pox on it) the Mitre yonder.

MUS. Well, an the Pope knew he cursed the Mitre it were
enough to have him excommunicated all the taverns in the town.

STEP. Cousin, how do you like this gentleman's verses?

LOR. JU. Oh, admirable, the best that ever I heard.

STEP. By this fair heavens, they are admirable,
The best that ever I heard.

[ENTER GIULIANO.]

GIU. I am vext I can hold never a bone of me still,
'Sblood, I think they mean to build a Tabernacle here, well?

PROS. Sister, you have a simple servant here, that crowns
your beauty with such encomiums and devices, you may see what
it is to be the mistress of a wit that can make your
perfections so transparent, that every blear eye may look
through them, and see him drowned over head and ears in the
deep well of desire. Sister Biancha, I marvel you get you
not a servant that can rhyme and do tricks too.

GIU. O monster! impudence itself! tricks!

BIA. Tricks, brother? what tricks?

HES. Nay, speak, I pray you, what tricks?

BIA. Ay, never spare any body here: but say, what tricks?

HES. Passion of my heart! do tricks?

PROS. 'Sblood, here's a trick vied, and revied: why, you
monkeys, you! what a cater-wauling do you keep! has he not
given you rhymes, and verses, and tricks?

GIU. Oh, see the devil!

PROS. Nay, you lamp of virginity, that take it in snuff so:
come and cherish this tame poetical fury in your servant,
you'll be begg'd else shortly for a concealment: go to,
reward his muse, you cannot give him less than a shilling in
conscience, for the book he had it out of cost him a teston
at the least. How now gallants, Lorenzo, Signior Bobadilla!
what, all sons of silence? no spirit.

GIU. Come, you might practise your ruffian tricks somewhere
else, and not here, I wiss: this is no tavern, nor no pl