Fan. Tushe, a strawe, I thought none yll. 570
C. Count. What, shall we iangle thus all the day styll?
Cr. Con. Nay, let vs our heddes togyder cast.
Fan. Ye, and se howe it may be compast,
That Mesure were cast out of the dores.
C. Count. Alasse, where is my botes and my spores?
Cr. Con. In all this hast whether wyll ye ryde?
C. Count. I trowe, it shall not nede to abyde.
Cockes woundes, se, syrs, se, se!
Hic ingrediatur Cloked Colusyon cum elato aspectu, deorsum et sursum ambulando.