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+M. Mery.+ Oh hym that fledde away.
+R. Royster.+ Yea.
+M. Mery.+ Yea he knew that his match was in place that day Tut, he bet the king of Crickets on Christma.s.se day, That he crept in a hole, and not a worde to say.
+M. Mumbl.+ A sore man by zembletee.
+M. Mery.+ Why, he wrong a club Once in a fray out of the hande of Belzebub.
+R. Roister.+ And how when Mumfision?
+M. Mery.+ Oh your coustrelyng Bore the lanterne a fielde so before the gozelyng.
Nay that is to long a matter now to be tolde: Neuer aske his name Nurse, I warrant thee, be bolde, He conquered in one day from _Rome_, to _Naples_, And woonne Townes nourse as fast as thou canst make Apples.
+M. Mumbl.+ O Lorde, my heart quaketh for feare: he is to sore.
+R. Roister.+ Thou makest hir to much afearde, Merygreeke no more.
This tale woulde feare my sweete heart Custance right euill.
+M. Mery.+ Nay let hir take him Nurse, and feare not the deuill.
But thus is our song dasht. Sirs ye may home againe.
+R. Roister.+ No shall they not. I charge you all here to remaine: The villaine slaues a whole day ere they can be founde.
+M. Mery.+ Couche on your marybones whooresons, down to the ground.
Was it meete he should tarie so long in one place Without harmonie of Musike, or some solace?
Who so hath suche bees as your maister in hys head, Had neede to haue his spirites with Musike to be fed.
By your maisterships licence.
+R. Roister.+ What is that? a moate?
+M. Mery.+ No it was a fooles feather had light on your coate.
+R. Roister.+ I was nigh no feathers since I came from my bed.
+M. Mery.+ No sir, it was a haire that was fall from your hed.
+R. Roister.+ My men com when it plese them.
+M. Mery.+ By your leue.
+R. Roister.+ What is that?
+M. Mery.+ Your gown was foule spotted with the foot of a gnat.
+R. Roister.+ Their maister to offende they are nothing afearde.
What now?
+M. Mery.+ A lousy haire from your masterships beard.
_Omnes famulae._ And sir for Nurses sake pardon this one offence.
We shall not after this shew the like negligence.
+R. Royster.+ I pardon you this once, and come sing nere the wurse.
+M. Mery.+ How like you the goodnesse of this gentleman nurse?
+M. Mumbl.+ G.o.d saue his maistership that so can his men forgeue, And I wyll heare them sing ere I go, by his leaue.
+R. Royster.+ Mary and thou shalt wenche, come we two will daunce.
+M. Mumbl.+ Nay I will by myne owne selfe foote the song perchaunce.
+R. Royster.+ Go to it sirs l.u.s.tily.
+M. Mumbl.+ Pipe vp a mery note, Let me heare it playde, I will foote it for a grote.
_Cantent._
+R. Royster.+ Now nurse take thys same letter here to thy mistresse.
And as my trust is in thee plie my businesse.
+M. Mumbl.+ It shalbe done?
+M. Mery.+ Who made it?
+R. Royster.+ I wrote it ech whit.
+M. Mery.+ Then nedes it no mending.
+R. Royster.+ No, no.
+M. Mery.+ No I know your wit.
I warrant it wel.
+M. Mumbl.+ It shal be deliuered.
But if ye speede, shall I be considered?
+M. Mery.+ Whough, dost thou doubt of that?
+Madge.+ What shal I haue?
+M. Mery.+ An hundred times more than thou canst deuise to craue.
+M. Mumbl.+ Shall I haue some newe geare? for my olde is all spent.
+M. Mery.+ The worst kitchen wench shall goe in ladies rayment.
+M. Mumbl.+ Yea?
