Moon. O Lord! do you not know him, mistress? ’tis mad Arthur of Bradley, that makes the orations.—Brave master, old Arthur of Bradley, how do you? welcome to the Fair! when shall we hear you again, to handle your matters, with your back against a booth, ha? I have been one of your little disciples, in my days.
Over. Let me drink, boy, with my love, thy aunt, here; that I may be eloquent: but of thy best, lest it be bitter in my mouth, and my words fall foul on the Fair.
Urs. Why dost thou not fetch him drink, and offer him to sit?
Moon. Is it ale or beer, master Arthur?
Over. Thy best, pretty stripling, thy best; the same thy dove drinketh, and thou drawest on holydays.
Urs. Bring him a sixpenny bottle of ale: they say, a fool’s handsel is lucky.
Over. Bring both, child. [Sits down in the booth.] Ale for Arthur, and Beer for Bradley. Ale for thine aunt, boy. [Exit Mooncalf.]—My disguise takes to the very wish and reach of it. I shall, by the benefit of this, discover enough, and more: and yet get off with the reputation of what I would be: a certain middling thing, between a fool and a madman. [Aside.
Enter KNOCKEM.
Knock. What! my little lean Ursula! my she-bear! art thou alive yet, with thy litter of pigs to grunt out another Bartholomew Fair? ha!