sitting upon the poynt of a Spanish needle, _Dicke
Bowyer's_ a very shittle-cocke. _Nod_! zounds, he is one of the nine
sleepers, a very Dormouse: & I had a pageant to present of the seven
deadly Sinnes[120], he should play Slouth; and he did not sleepe when he
should speake his part I am a Badger.

_Soul_. That's true; you have halfe the nature of a Badger, for one leg
is shorter then another.

_Bow_. Zounds, you Rogue, doe not you know that? Ile tell you: s'hart
and I lye, call me Jebuzite. Once as I was fighting in S. Georges
fields, and blind Cupid seeing me and taking me for some valiant
_Achilles_, he tooke his shaft and shot me right into the left heele;
and ever since _Dick Bowyer_ hath beene lame. But my heart is as sound
as a bell: heart of Oake, spirit, spirit! Lieutenant, discharge _Nod_
and let _Cricket_ stand Sentronell till I come.

_Lieu_. He shall, Captayne.

_Bow_. On afore! strike Drum, march soldiers, keep your place, Nod.
Lusty, my harts, for the honour of England and our brave General the
Earle of Pembrooke! [_Exeunt soldiers_.] So I have discharg'd my selfe
of these. Hot shot![121] now to my love. Some may say the tale of Venus
loving Mars is a fable, but he that is a true soldier and a Gent. as
Dick Bowyer is, & he do not love some varlet or other, zounds he is
worse then a gaping Oyster without liquor. There's a pretty sweet fac't
mother[122] that waits on the princesse that I have some mind to; but a
whorson _Architophel_, a parasite, a rogue, one whose face looks worse
then a Tailors cushen of old shreds and colours, zounds like a weavers
leg in an old ditch feeding horseleaches; & this trotter is my ryval &
loves _Thomasin_: his name is _Peter de Lions_, but s'hart (I will not
sweare neither) if I do not turne Rich. _Cor de Lion_ with him, if I do
not teare out his heart and eate it with mustard, let him say Dick
Bowyer's a Mackarell. Yonder hee comes with my property hand in hand.
Zounds! I say nothing, but ile heare what they say and determine
afterward.

_Enter Peter and Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Thomasin, you know me, I hate prolixity: in a word, my humour is
thus, I love.

_Bow_.--And I do not spoyle that humor, so--

_Pet_. Your answere compendiously & avoyd prolixity.

_Tom_. Mary muffe[123]! by Jesu I scorne to humble the least part about
me to give answere to such a trothing question: as I live it joults mine
eares worse in hearing then the princes coach on a broken cawsey.