Hyl. May we sing too?
For there's my master-piece.
Tho. By no means, no Boys,
I am the man reserv'd for Air, 'tis my part,
And if she be not rock, my voyce shall reach her:
Ye may record a little, or ye may whistle,
As time shall minister, but for main singing,
Pray ye satisfie your selves: away, be careful.
Hyl. But hark ye, one word Tom, we may be beaten.
Tho. That's as ye think good your selves: if you deserve it,
Why 'tis the easiest thing to compass: beaten?
What Bugbears dwell in thy brains? who should beat thee?
Hyl. She has men enough.
Tho. Art not thou man enough too?
Thou hast flesh enough about thee: if all that mass
Will not maintain a little spirit, hang it,
And dry it too for dogs-meat: get you gone;
I have things of moment in my mind: that door,
Keep it as thou would'st keep thy Wife from a Servingman.
No more I say: away, Sam.
Sam. At your will, Sir. [Exeunt Hylas and Sam.
Enter Launcelot, and Fidler.
Lan. I have him here, a rare Rogue, good sweet Master,
Do something of some savour suddenly,
That we may eat, and live: I am almost starv'd,
No point manieur, no point devein, no Signieur,
Not by the vertue of my languages,
Nothing at my old masters to be hoped for,
O Signieur du, nothing to line my life with,
But cold Pyes with a cudgel, till you help us.
Tho. Nothing but famine frights thee: come hither Fidler,
What Ballads are you seen in best? be short Sir.