_.

_Bos_. The triplicitie! heere's those has supt at an ordinarie.

_Accu_. This gallant humors.

_Gra_. But the other walkes aloofe.

_Bos_. The triplicite! heere's those has crackt glasses and drawn blood
of a Tapster.

_Gra_. The visitation of your hand, sir.

_Bos_. The Triplicitie! will colours change?

_Acut_. Sir, take no offence, I beseech ye, we gave onlye satisfaction
for an olde injurie, but in the degree of amitie your selfe sits in the
superlative.

_Bos_. No sir, but in respect.

_Gra_. What kinde is your Dogge of, sir?

_Bos_. Verie kinde to anything but his meat, that hee devours with great
alacritie.

_Grac_. Where was he bred?

_Bos_. In a Bitch.

_Gra_. What Countrie?

_Bos_. A kind of Mungrill, he will carrie but not fetch, marrie hee is
to be put to a dauncing schoole for instruction.

_Acut_. The tricke of the rope were excellent in him, & that ile teach
him, if I misse not my mark. Come, Gallants, we waste time, the first
Taverne we arrive at weel see the race of an houre-glasse.

_Phy_. Can ye a part in a Song?

_Gra_. Verie tollerably.

_Phy_. Weele have a catch then, if with sol, sol, la: Gentlemen have you
any good herbe? you have match, boy.

_Boy_. Your pipe shall want no fire sir.

_Acut_. Oh, without ceremony: now, _Graccus_, if we can but pawne their
senses in Sack and Sugar, let mee alone to pursue the sequell.

_Gra_. Follow it away.

[_Exeunt_.

[_Scene_ 3.]

_Enter Hostis, Cittizens wife, Servulus, and Scillicet_.

_Hostis_. Come, come, bring them out of the ayre: alas good hearts, what
rogorous villaine would commit with him? ile tell ye Gosip, hee's eene
as kinde an animall, he would not wrong them y'faith.

_Citty wife_. Tush, feare nothing woman, I hope to make him so again.
Alacke, alacke, how fell you out all a head?[265] Oh Butcher! are ye
hurt in another place?

_Hostis_. Did he not throw you against the stones? If he did, doe not
conceale, I dare say you gave them not a foule word.

_Scil_. By the illuminate welkin not a word till my mouth was full of
blood, and so made my words foule.

_Citty wife_. Is not this Gentleman hurt too?

_Serv_. Onelye the extravagant Artire[266] of my arme is brused.

_Cittie wi_. See, see, the extravagant of his arme is brused to. Alas,
how could ye quarrell so?

_Serv_. I will demonstrate: in the defence of the generous youth I did
appugne my adverse, let violently