FARNESE

Rice how now man? whither art y u galloping? Excellent, but did not Emulo write a challenge to Sir Owen. He God the ̄ by heart Vrcenze, & so deceived the poor souls: as a gallant whom I know, cozens others: for my brisk spam ̄ gled baby will come into a Stationers shop, call for a stool and a cushion, and then asking for some Greek Poet, to him he falls, and there he grumbles God knows what, but I'll be sworn he knows not so much as one Character of the tongue. Would, would, Emulo not write and read? Nay sweet Rice a little more, What else man, thats one of the miserable vows he makes when he's dubbed: yet he does but as many of his brother knights do, keep and ordinary table for him and his long coat follower. I'll set some of the Pages upon thy skirts for this O old touch lad, this younker is right Trinidado pure leaf Tobacco, for indeed he's nothing purffe, reek, and would be tried (not by God and his country) but by fire, the very soul of his substance and needs would convert into smoke. True, and Iron to the head, o theres a rich lea den mineral amongst his brains, if his skull were well dug, Sirrah Vrcence, this is one of those changeable Silk gallants, who in a very scurvy pride, scorn alschol le, and read no books but a looking glass, and speak no language but sweet Lady, and sweet Signior and chew between their tooth terrible words, as though they would conjure, as compliment and Projects, and Fastidious, & Capricious, and Misprizian, and the Sintheresis, of the soul, and such Like raise velvet terms. Indeed thats one of their fustiam ̄ outla ̄ dish phrases to, marry sir their accontreme ̄ ts, are all y e fa ̄ tasticke fashi ons, y to can be taken up, either upon ̄ trust or at second hand. None good, these are the best: to make good fa ces: to take Tobacco well, to spit well, to laugh Like a waiting Genllewoman, to lie well, to blush for nothing, to look big upon little fellows, to scoff with a grace, though they have a very filthy grace in scoffing, and for a need to ride pretty and well. Here's the difference, that they ride upon horses, and when they are ridden they are spurred for asses, so they can cry wighee and hollow kicking jade, they care not if they have no more learning then a Jade. O he would dance a morrice rarely if he were hung with bells. Peace lets encounter them. Now the gallimaufry of language comes in. Nay faith weel have you found friends indeed, otherwise you know, Signior Emulo, if you should bear all the wrongs, you would be our Athlassed. Weel follow you presently Sir owen. So this will be rare: Sirrah Vrcenze, at the mar riage night of these two, instead of Io Hymen, we shall here heigh ho Hiemen, their love will be Like a great fire made of bay leaves, that yields nothing but cracking noise, noise. So she soader it again, it will pass currant. Lets have a fling at her. Faith mistress would you had traveled a litile So ner this way, you should have seen a rare comedy ac ted by Emulo. Sir Owen shall marry your cozen Gwenthyan, I think sir Owen would die rather then lose her love Yes for your love you would Julia. Then I prceiue you mean to lead apes in hell. I as they do at barlibreake. As long as I have a beautiful Lady to torment me, I care not. Onophrio and Vrcenze early met, every man take his stand, for there comes a most rich purchase of mirth: Emulo with his hand in a fair scarf, and Julia Hee'll strip himself out of his shirt anon, for Gods sake step in. Would would, Madame you had a pitiful hand with this fool, but see he is recovered. Wounded, o palpable, come a demonstration of it. Fie Signior, a scarce about your neck, yet will not hang your self to hear all this? Abram we casheere you our company, we must have no minions at Court. She's the quietest woman that ere I knew, for good heart, shée'll put up any thing. You shall bob no nose here. No faith Madame, he's blown up, no calling can serve him, he has taken another manner of calling upon him, and I hope repents the folly of his youth. Well mistress we appear without drumming, what's your parley (and yet not so) your eyes are the drums that summons us. It becomes us to rest, before we come to the rest, yet for a need we could turn you into and armoury: as for example, your lips (let me see) no point of war for your lips? can I put them to no use but kissing? o yes, if you change them to shoot out unkind language to us that stand at your mercy, they are two culverins to de stroy us. Then yowl turn warrior in deed. I but Sir owen, the kissing her Lady is no mirth to us, if we kiss the post. By my troth nor I. No more tell Vrcenze of it: why should you two fallen out for the love of a woman, considering what store we have of them? Sir Emulo I gratulate your peace, your company you know is precious to us, and weel be merry, and ride abroad: before God now I talk of riding, Sir Owen me thinks has and excellent boot. Whats her lathes? where's the lime & hair Emulo, Nay sir Owen what mean you? Gods so, here comes the widow, but in faith Sir Owen say nothing of this. How Italy? away you idiot: Italy infects you not, but your own diseased spirits: Italy? out you froth, you scum, because your soul is mud, and that you have breathed in Italy, you'll say Italy have defiled you: away you boar, thou wilt wallow in mire in the sweetest con try in the world. Do if you dare. How my Lady Gwenthian? would would would. Nay there's no matter in it, the fire's quenched, the victuals given to beggars, Sir Owens kitchen looks Like the first Chaos, or Like a Brokers stall, full of odd ends: or Like the end of some terrible battle, for upon every dres sir lies legs and feathers, and heads of poor Capons and wild foul that have been drawn and quartered, and now mourn that their carcases are carried away: his are not rewmaticke, for there's no spitting here lie fish in a pitiful pickle, there stands the coffins of pies, wherein the dead bodies of birds should have been buri ed, but their ghosts have forsaken their graves & walked abroad: the best sport is to see the scullians, some laugh king, some crying, & while they wipe their eyes they black their faces, the Cooks curse her Lady, and some pray for our Lord. I appear sweet mistress without summons. I obey to, but so God help me mistress I shall show you a fair pair of heals and cry a new Mistress a new, if any pitiful creature will have me. It's pity that fellow was not made a Soldier, he should have but a word and a blow at his hands. Mundage Thlawen, o my good widow gabble that we may understand you, and have at you. A bakte Neats tongue is finer then both. Faith widow take him, Sir owen is a tall man I can tell you. O here comes Sir Owen, and my Lady patience ence, Come there. Would would welcome, come come Madame appear in your likeness, or rather in the likeness of another, my Lord you're best send back to your own Cooks, if you mean to set your teeth a work to day. Lets step in, God save you Singnior Emulo. I a bald friend.