Met. By this hand, I could find in my heart to shooe his head.
Pac. Why then know you, Signior; thou mongril, begot at midnight, at the Goal gate, by a Beadle, on a Catchpoles wife, are not you he that was whipt out of Toledo for perjury.
Men. Next; condemn'd to the Gallies for pilfery, to the Buls pizel.
Met. And after call'd to the Inquisition, for Apostacie.
Pac. Are not you he that rather than you durst goe an industrious voyage being press'd to the Islands, skulk'd till the Fleet was gone, and then earn'd your Royal a day by squiring puncks, and puncklings up and down the City?
Laz. Are not you a Portuguize born, descended o' the Moors, and came hither into Sevil with your Master, an arrant Tailor, in your red Bonnet, and your blue Jacket, lousie, though now your block-head be cover'd with the Spanish block, and your lashed Shoulders with a Velvet Pee.
Pac. Are not you he that have been of thirty callings, yet ne'r a one lawful? that being a Chandler first, profess'd sincerity, and would sell no man Mustard to his Beef on the Sabbath, and yet sold Hypocrisie all your life time?
Met. Are not you he, that were since a Surgeon to the Stews, and undertook to cure what the Church it self could not, Strumpets that rise to your office by being a great Don's Bawd?
Laz. That commit men nightly, offenceless, for the gain of a groat a prisoner, which your Beadle seems to put up, when you share three pence?