_Pur._ Why, I am the king's purveyor, and I tell thee I will have them.
_And._ I am Ateukin's servant, Signior Andrew, and I say, thou shalt not have them.
_Pur._ Here's my ticket; deny it if thou darest.
_And._ There is the stable; fetch them out if thou darest.
_Pur._ Sirrah, sirrah, tame your tongue, lest I make you.
_And._ Sirrah, sirrah, hold your hand, lest I bum[272] you.
_Pur._ I tell thee, thy master's geldings are good, and therefore fit for the king.
_And._ I tell thee, my master's horses have galled backs, and therefore cannot fit the king. Purveyor, purveyor, purvey thee of more wit: darest thou presume to wrong my Lord Ateukin, being the chiefest man in court?
_Pur._ The more unhappy commonweal where flatterers are chief in court.
_Pur._ I say thou art too presumptuous, and the officers shall school thee.
_And._ A fig for them and thee, purveyor! They seek a knot in a ring that would wrong my master or his servants in this court.
_Pur._ The world is at a wise pass when nobility is afraid of a flatterer.
_Jaq._ Sirrah, what be you that _parley contre Monsieur_ my Lord Ateukin? _en bonne foi_, prate you against Sir _Altesse_, me maka your _tête_ to leap from your shoulders, _per ma foi c'y ferai-je?_
_And._ O, signior captain, you show yourself a forward and friendly gentleman in my master's behalf: I will cause him to thank you.
_Jaq. Poltron_, speak me one _parola_ against my _bon gentilhomme_, I shall _estamp_ your guts, and thump your backa, that you _no point_ manage this ten hours.
_Pur._ Sirrah, come open me the stable, and let me have the horses;--and, fellow, for all your French brags, I will do my duty.
_And._ I'll make garters of thy guts, thou villain, if thou enter this office.
_Jaq. Mort Dieu_, take me that cappa _pour votre labeur_: be gone, villain, in the _mort_. [_Exit._
_Pur._ What, will you resist me, then? Well, the council, fellow, shall know of your insolency.
_And._ Tell them what thou wilt, and eat that I can best spare from my back-parts, and get you gone with a vengeance. [_Exit_ Purveyor.
_Ateu._ Where be my writings I put in my pocket last night?
_And._ Which, sir? your annotations upon Machiavel?
_Ateu._ No, sir; the letters-patents for East Spring.