|1910| _Sir Vaugh._ Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now.
_Tucca._ And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English.
_Sir Vaughan._ Oundes mee? that’s treason: clip? horrible treasons, Sesu holde my handes; clip? he baites mouse-trappes for |1915| my life.
_Tucca._ Right little _Twinckler_, right: hee sayes because thou speak’st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head.
_Sir Vaug._ By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or |1920| money.
_Tuc._ He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere; he calles thee bald-pate.
_Sir Vaugh._ Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities.
_Tuc._ And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle? & then he |1925| rimes too’t, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromples thy Cap too; and----
_Cri._ Come Tucca, come, no more; the man’s wel knowne, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong?
_Tuc._ Mary himselfe, the vglie Pope Boniface, pardons himselfe, |1930| and therefore my iudgement is, that presently he bee had from hence to his place of execution, and there bee Stab’d, Stab’d, Stab’d.
_Hor._ Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh slaue art hyr’d to murder me, to murder me, to murder me?
_Sir Vaugh._ Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, |1940| rub, rub, rub.
_Tu._ If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple.
_Cris._ How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound; |1945| Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man? Come, put thy heart into his place againe; Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine.
_Sir Vau._ I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking.
_Ho._ Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate.
|1950| _Tuc._ Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon.