Soto.
Cobler thou ly'st, and thou wert a thousand coblers
His mother was an honest mare, and a mare of good credit,
Scorn'd any coach-horse the Pope had; thou art foolish,
And thy blind zeal makes thee abuse the beast.
Hob.
I do defie thee and thy foot-cloth too,
And tell thee to thy face, this prophane riding
I feel it in my conscience, and I dare speak it,
This unedified ambling hath brought a scourge upon us.
Far.
Will you dance no more, neighbour?
Hob.
Surely no,
Carry the beast to his crib: I have renounc'd him
And all his works.
Soto.
Shall the Hobby-horse be forgot then?
The hopeful Hobby-horse, shall he lye founder'd?