Clor. You mean the boots, I think they are neat by nature.
Fra. As thou art knavish, would I saw his face!
Clor. 'Twould scare you in the dark.
Fran. A worse than that
Has never scar'd you Clora to my knowledge.
Clor. 'Tis true, for I never have seen a worse;
Nor while I say my prayers heartily,
I hope I shall not.
Fran. Well, I am no tell tale:
But is it not great pity, tell me Clora,
That such a brave deserving Gentleman
As every one delivers this to be,
Should have no more respect, and worth flung on him
By able men? Were I one of these great ones,
Such vertues should not sleep thus.
Clor. Were he greater
He would sleep more I think: I'le waken him.
Fran. Away ye fool.
Clor. Is he not dead already, and they two taking order
About his Blacks? me thinks they are very busie,
A fine clean coarse he is: I would have him buried
Even as he lyes, cross legg'd, like one o'th' Templers
(If his Westphalia gammons will hold crossing)
And on his brest, a buckler with a pike in't,
In which I would have some learned Cutler
Compile an Epitaph, and at his feet
A musquet, with this word upon a Label
Which from the cocks mouth thus should be delivered,
I have discharg'd the office of a Souldier.
Fran. Well, if thy Father were a Souldier
Thus thou wouldst use him.