Dan. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?
Mar. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his politics! excellent!
Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?
Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.
Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.
Dan. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?
Mar. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!
Fran. See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.
Dan. No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.
Mar. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.