angry women of Abington.
Carrie it to him to whom it is directed.
Nich. To whom is it?
M. Bar. Why reade it, canst thou read?
Nich. Forsooth though none of the best, yet meanly:
M. Bar. Why dost thou not vse it?
Nich. Forsooth as vse makes perfectnes, so seldome seene is
soone forgotten.
soone forgotten.
M. Bar. Well said, but goe, it is to Master Goursey,
Phil. Now sir, what prouerbe haue ye to deliuer a letter?
Nich. What need you to care? who speakes to you? you
may speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to
coole your pottage: well, well, you are my maisters sonne &
you looke for his lande, but they that hope for dead mens
shooes, may hap to go barefoote: take heed, as soone goes the
yong sheep to the pot'as the olde. I pray God saue my Maysters
life, for sildome comes the better.
may speake when you are spoken to, and keep your winde to
coole your pottage: well, well, you are my maisters sonne &
you looke for his lande, but they that hope for dead mens
shooes, may hap to go barefoote: take heed, as soone goes the
yong sheep to the pot'as the olde. I pray God saue my Maysters
life, for sildome comes the better.
Phil. O he hath giuen it me: farewell prouerbes.
Nich. Farewell frost.
Phil. Shal I fling an old shoe after ye?
Nich. No, you should say God send faire weather after me,
Phil. I meane for good lucke.
Exit.Nich. A good lucke on ye.
M. Bar. Alas poore foole, he vses all his wit,
Phillip in faith this mirth hath cheered thought,
And cussend it of his right play of passion,
Goe after Nick, and when thou thinkst hees there,
Go in and vrge to that which I haue writ,
Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke,
And in my meditation coniure so,
As that some send of thought selfe-eating anger,
Shall by my spels of treason vanish quite
Away, and let me beate from thee to night.
Phillip in faith this mirth hath cheered thought,
And cussend it of his right play of passion,
Goe after Nick, and when thou thinkst hees there,
Go in and vrge to that which I haue writ,
Ile in these meddowes make a cerckling walke,
And in my meditation coniure so,
As that some send of thought selfe-eating anger,
Shall by my spels of treason vanish quite
Away, and let me beate from thee to night.
Phil. To night, yes that you shall, but harke ye father,
Looke that you my sister waking keepe,
Exeunt.For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe.
Looke that you my sister waking keepe,
Exeunt.For Franke I sweare shall kisse her ere I sleepe.
Enter Franke and Boy.
Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene,
Butler some Beere, sirra call the Butler.
Butler some Beere, sirra call the Butler.
Bo. Nay faith sir, we must haue some smith to giue the butler
A
