Soto. That it is, that it is, what's this word now? this
Is a plaguy word, that it is r. e. a. that it is, reason,
By your leave, Mr. Soto, by your leave, you are too quick, Sir,
There's a strange parlous T. before the reason,
A very tall T. which makes the word High Treason.
Sil. What Treason's that? does this fellow understand
Himself?
Soto. Pitch will infect, I'll meddle no more with this geer;
What a devil ails this fellow? this foolish fellow?
Being admitted to be one of us too,
That are the masters of the sports proceeding,
Thus to appear before me too, unmorris'd?
Do you know me friend?
Sil. You are my Masters Son, Sir.
Soto. And do you know what sports are now in season?
Sil. I hear there are some a-foot.
Soto. Where are your Bells then?
Your Rings, your Ribons, friend? & your clean Napkins?
Your Nosegay in your hat, pinn'd up, am not I here?
My fathers eldest Son, and at this time, Sir,
I would have ye know it, though ye be ten times his servant
A better man than my father far, Lord of this Harvest, Sir,
And shall a man of my place want attendance?
Sil. 'Twas want of knowledge, Sir, not duty, bred this,
I would have made Suit else for your Lordships service.
Soto. In some sort I am satisfied now, mend your manners,
But thou art a melancholy fellow, vengeance melancholy,
And that may breed an insurrection amongst us;
Go too, I'll lay the best part of two pots now
Thou art in love, and I can guess with whom too,
I saw the wench that twir'd and twinkled at thee,
The other day; the wench that's new come hither,
The young smug wench.
Sil. You know more than I feel Sir.