|1075| _Sir Vaughan._ By Sesu tis no libell, for heere is my hand to it.
_Mini._ Ile ha no hand in it Sir Vaughan, Ile not deale with you.
_Sir Vau._ Why then widdow, Ile tell you by word a mouth my deuices.
_Mi._ Your deuices come not neere my mouth Sir Vaughan |1080| perdy, I was vpon a time in the way to marriage, but now I am turn’d a tother side, I ha sworne to leade a single and simple life.
_Sir Adam._ She has answer’d you Sir Vaughan.
_Sir Vau._ Tis true, but at wrong weapons Sir Adam; will you be an Asse Mistris Miniuers?
|1085| _Min._ If I be you shall not ride me.
_Sir Vaug._ A simple life! by Sesu tis the life of a foole, a simple life!
_Sir Vaugh._ My braines has a little fine quawme come vnder it, |1090| and therefore Sir Adam, and Sir Quintilian, and mistris Miniuer caps God bo’y.
_Sir Vaugh._ Master Horace, your inuentions doe her no good in the Vniuersalities; yet heere is two shillings for your wittes; |1095| nay by Sesu you shall take it if’t were more: yonder bald Adams, is put my nose from his ioynt; but Adam I will be euen to you: this is my cogitations, I will indite the Ladies & Miniuer caps to a dinner of Plumbes, and I shall desire you M. Horace, |1100| to speake or raile; you can raile I hope in God a mighty.
_Sir Vaughan._ Right, to spitte bitterly vpon baldnes, or the thinnes of haire; you sall eate downe Plumbes to sweeten your mouth, and heere is a good Ansell to defend you: Peter Salamander |1105| follow me.
_Flash._ With hue and crie and you will Sir.
_Sir Vau._ Come M. Horace, I will goe pull out the Ladies.
_Ho._ And Ile set out my wits, Baldnes the Theame? My words shall flow hye in a siluer stream.
|1110| _Enter_ Tucca _brushing off the crumbes_.
_Tuc._ Wher’s my most costly and sumptuous Shorthose?
_Sir Quint._ Is the King risen from table Captaine Tucca?
_Tuc._ How? risen? no my noble Quintilian, kings are greater men then we Knights and Caualliers, and therefore must eate |1115| more then lesser persons; Godamercy good Diues for these crummes: how now? has not Frier Tucke din’d yet? he falles so hard to that Oyster-pye yonder.
_Sir quin._ Oyster-pye Captaine? ha, ha, he loues her, and I loue her and feare both shall goe without her.
|1120| _Tuc._ Dost loue her, my finest and first part of the Mirrour of Knighthood? hange her she lookes like a bottle of ale, when the corke flyes out and the Ale fomes at mouth, shee lookes my good button-breech like the signe of Capricorne, or like Tiborne when it is couer’d with snow.