suddenly to set;
She's cunning in the wild-goose race,
Nay, she's apt to every pace;
And to prove her colour good,
A flea, enamour'd of her blood,
Digg'd for channels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck:
I think there's 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 master--

FRAN. What do I?

BOY. Nay, nothing, sir.

PHIL. O, fie, Frank, fie!
Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now,
I must needs say; persuade him first to speak,
Then chide him for it! Tell me, pretty wag,
Where stands this prancer, in what inn or stable?
Or hath thy master put her out to run,
Then in what field, what champion,[231] feeds this courser,
This well-pac'd, bonny steed that thou so praisest?

BOY. Faith, sir, I think--

FRAN. Villain, what do ye think?

BOY. I think that you, sir, have been ask'd by many,
But yet I never heard that ye told any.

PHIL. Well, boy, then I will add one more to many.
And ask thy master where this jennet feeds.
Come, Frank, tell me--nay, prythee, tell me, Frank,
My good horse-master, tell me--by this light,
I will not steal her from thee; if I do,
Let me be held a felon to thy love.

FRAN. No, Philip, no.

PHIL. What, wilt thou wear a point[232] but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

_Enter_ COOMES.

COOMES. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners,
these trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these--

FRAN. What, what, sir?

COOMES. These bowlers, sir.

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

COOMES. Why, I say they cannot be saved.

FRAN. Your reason, sir?

COOMES. Because they throw away their souls at every mark.

FRAN. Their souls! how mean ye?

PHIL. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl.

FRAN. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl!

COOMES. Well, which is the bias?

FRAN. This next to you.

COOMES. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true.

BOY. Rub, rub!

COOMES. Why rub?

BOY. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way.

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

PHIL. Dick Coomes, methinks thou art[233] very pleasant:
Where[234] got'st thou this merry humour?

COOMES. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in th' house.

PHIL. Then you have been carousing hard?

COOMES. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's men and we meet.

PHIL. Thou art very welcome thither, Dick.

COOMES. By God, I than