Simp. Alas, master, I know not.
Glo. What’s his name?
Simp. I know not.
Glo. Nor his?
Simp. No, indeed, master.
Glo. What’s thine own name?
Simp. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master.
Glo. Then, Saunder, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names, as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours, but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible.
My lords, St. Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great, that could restore this cripple to his legs again?
Simp. O, master, that you could!
Glo. My masters of St. Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?