Clau. Best ask an Ass, if he were made a Camel, What he would be; or a dog, and he were a Lyon.
Ginks. I care not what you are, Sirs, I shall be A Beggar still I am sure, I find my self there.
Enter Goswin.
Snap. O here a Judge comes.
Hig. Cry, a Judge, a Judge.
Gos. What ail you Sirs? what means this outcry?
Hig. Master,
A sort of poor souls met: Gods fools, good Master,
Have had some little variance amongst our selves
Who should be honestest of us, and which lives
Uprightest in his calling: Now, 'cause we thought
We ne're should 'gree on't our selves, because
Indeed 'tis hard to say: we all dissolv'd, to put it
To him that should come next, and that's your Master-ship,
Who, I hope, will 'termine it as your mind serves you,
Right, and no otherwise we ask it: which?
Which does your worship think is he? sweet Master
Look over us all, and tell us; we are seven of us,
Like to the seven wise Masters, or the Planets.
Gos. I should judge this the man with the grave beard, And if he be not—
Clau. Bless you, good Master, bless you.
Gos. I would he were: there's something too amongst you To keep you all honest. [Exit.