A Select Collection of Old English Plays Volume Vii Part 48

BOY. The colour, sir.

FRAN. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will--

BOY. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!

FRAN. What, shall we have it?

BOY. Why, sir, I cannot paint.

FRAN. Well, then, I can; And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir.

BOY. Then I must find the table, if you do.

FRAN. A wh.o.r.eson, barren, wicked urchin!

BOY. Look how you chafe! you would be angry more, If I should tell it you.

FRAN. Go to, I'll anger ye, and if you do not.

BOY. Why, sir, the horse that I do mean Hath a leg both straight and clean, That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flaw, But is the best that ever ye saw; A pretty rising knee--O knee!

It is as round as round may be; The full flank makes the b.u.t.tock round: This palfrey standeth on no ground, When as my master's on her back, If that he once do say but, tack:[229]

And if he p.r.i.c.k her, you shall see Her gallop amain, she is so free; And if he give her but a nod, She thinks it is a riding-rod; And if he'll have her softly go, Then she trips it like a doe; She comes so easy with the rein, A twine-thread turns her back again; And truly I did ne'er see yet A horse play proudlier on the bit: My master with good managing Brought her first unto the ring;[230]

He likewise taught her to corvet, To run, and suddenly to set; She's cunning in the wild-goose race, Nay, she's apt to every pace; And to prove her colour good, A flea, enamour'd of her blood, Digg'd for channels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck: I think there's none that use to ride But can her pleasant trot abide; She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day; And when my master--

FRAN. What do I?

BOY. Nay, nothing, sir.

PHIL. O, fie, Frank, fie!

Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, I must needs say; persuade him first to speak, Then chide him for it! Tell me, pretty wag, Where stands this prancer, in what inn or stable?

Or hath thy master put her out to run, Then in what field, what champion,[231] feeds this courser, This well-pac'd, bonny steed that thou so praisest?

BOY. Faith, sir, I think--

FRAN. Villain, what do ye think?

BOY. I think that you, sir, have been ask'd by many, But yet I never heard that ye told any.

PHIL. Well, boy, then I will add one more to many.

And ask thy master where this jennet feeds.

Come, Frank, tell me--nay, prythee, tell me, Frank, My good horse-master, tell me--by this light, I will not steal her from thee; if I do, Let me be held a felon to thy love.

FRAN. No, Philip, no.

PHIL. What, wilt thou wear a point[232] but with one tag?

Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.

_Enter_ COOMES.

COOMES. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners, these trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these--

FRAN. What, what, sir?

COOMES. These bowlers, sir.

FRAN. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?

COOMES. Why, I say they cannot be saved.

FRAN. Your reason, sir?

COOMES. Because they throw away their souls at every mark.

FRAN. Their souls! how mean ye?

PHIL. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl.

FRAN. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl!

COOMES. Well, which is the bias?

FRAN. This next to you.

COOMES. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true.

BOY. Rub, rub!

COOMES. Why rub?

BOY. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way.

COOMES. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.

PHIL. d.i.c.k Coomes, methinks thou art[233] very pleasant: Where[234] got'st thou this merry humour?

COOMES. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in th' house.

PHIL. Then you have been carousing hard?

COOMES. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's men and we meet.

PHIL. Thou art very welcome thither, d.i.c.k.

COOMES. By G.o.d, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye, sir: by G.o.d, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkshire fight better for ye than I will do, if you have any quarrel in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paid a quarter's wages for't, by Jesus.

PHIL. O, this meat-failer d.i.c.k!

How well't has made the apparel of his wit, And brought it into fashion of an honour!

Prythee, d.i.c.k Coomes, but tell me how thou dost?