and he
dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inch, no, 'sblood,
will I[236] not.

FRAN. Will ye not?

PHIL. Stay, prythee, Frank. Coomes, dost thou hear?

COOMES. Hear me no hears: stand away, I'll trust none of you all. If I
have my back against a cartwheel, I would not care if the devil came.

PHIL. Why, ye fool, I am your friend.

COOMES. Fool on your face! I have a wife.

FRAN. She's a whore, then.

COOMES. She's as honest as Nan Lawson.

PHIL. What's she?

COOMES. One of his whores.

PHIL. Why, hath he so many?

COOMES. Ay, as many as there be churches in London.

PHIL. Why, that's a hundred and nine.

BOY. Faith, he lies a hundred.

PHIL. Then thou art a witness to nine.

BOY. No, by God, I'll be witness to none.

COOMES. Now do I stand like the George at Colebrook.

BOY. No, thou stand'st like the Bull at St Alban's.

COOMES. Boy, ye lie--the Horns.[237]

BOY. The bull's bitten; see, how he butts!

PHIL. Coomes, Coomes, put up;[238] my friend and thou art friends.

COOMES. I'll hear him say so first.

PHIL. Frank, prythee, do; be friends, and tell him so.

FRAN. Go to, I am.

BOY. Put up, sir; and ye be a man, put up.

COOMES. I am easily persuaded, boy.

PHIL. Ah, ye mad slave!

COOMES. Come, come, a couple of whoremasters I found ye,
and so I leave ye.
[_Exit_.

PHIL. Lo, Frank, dost thou not see he's drunk,
That twits thee[239] with thy disposition?

FRAN. What disposition?

PHIL. Nan Lawson, Nan Lawson.

FRAN. Nay, then--

PHIL. Go to, ye wag, 'tis well:
If ever ye get a wife, i'faith I'll tell.
Sirrah, at home we have a servingman;
He is[240] not humour'd bluntly as Coomes is,
Yet his condition[241] makes me often merry:
I'll tell thee, sirrah, he's a fine neat fellow,
A spruce slave; I warrant ye, he will[242] have
His cruel garters[243] cross about the knee,
His woollen hose as white as th'driven snow,
His shoes dry-leather neat, and tied with red ribbons,
A nosegay bound with laces in his hat--
Bridelaces, sir--and his hat all green[244],
Green coverlet for such a grass-green wit.
"The goose that grazeth on the green," quoth he,
"May I eat on, when you shall buried be!"
All proverbs is his speech, he's proverbs all.

FRAN. Why speaks he proverbs?

PHIL. Because he would speak truth,
And proverbs, you'll confess, are old-said sooth.

FRAN. I like this well, and one day I will see him:
But shall we part?

PHIL. Not