A pleasant Comedie of the two
Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race,
Nay shee's apt to euery pace,
And to prooue her colour good,
A flea enamourd of her blood,
Digd for channels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck,
I thinke theres none that vse to ride,
But can her pleasant trot abide,
She goes so euen vpon the way,
She will not stumble in a day,
And when my maister.
Nay shee's apt to euery pace,
And to prooue her colour good,
A flea enamourd of her blood,
Digd for channels in her neck,
And there made many a crimson speck,
I thinke theres none that vse to ride,
But can her pleasant trot abide,
She goes so euen vpon the way,
She will not stumble in a day,
And when my maister.
Fra. What do I?
Boy. Nay nothing sir.
Phil. O fie Franke fie,
Nay, nay, your reason hath no iustice now,
I must needs say, perswade him first to speake,
Then chide him for it: tell me prettie wag,
Where stands his prawncer, in what Inne or stable?
Or hath thy maister put her out to runne,
Then in what field, what champion feeds this courser?
This well paste bonnie steed that thou so praisest.
Nay, nay, your reason hath no iustice now,
I must needs say, perswade him first to speake,
Then chide him for it: tell me prettie wag,
Where stands his prawncer, in what Inne or stable?
Or hath thy maister put her out to runne,
Then in what field, what champion feeds this courser?
This well paste bonnie steed that thou so praisest.
Boy. Faith sir I thinke.
Fran. Villaine, what do yee thinke?
Boy. I thinke that you sir haue bene askt by many,
But yet I neuer heard that yee tolde any,
But yet I neuer heard that yee tolde any,
Phil. Well boy, then I will adde one more to many,
And aske thy maister where this Iennet feeds:
Come Franke tell me, nay prethie tell me Franke,
My good horse-maister tell me, by this light
I will not steale her from thee: if I do,
Let me beheld a selone to thy loue.
And aske thy maister where this Iennet feeds:
Come Franke tell me, nay prethie tell me Franke,
My good horse-maister tell me, by this light
I will not steale her from thee: if I do,
Let me beheld a selone to thy loue.
Fran. No Phillip no.
Phil. What, wilt thou were a point but with one tag?
Well Francis well, I see you are a wag.
Well Francis well, I see you are a wag.
Enter Comes.
Com. Swounds where he these timber turners, these trowle
the bowles, these greene men, these.
the bowles, these greene men, these.
Fran. What, what sir?
Comes. These bowlers sir.
Fran.
