Latch. Valiant, quoth-a! Truly, sir, I'll tell ye,
On the truth of a poor man, my Lady de Prate's foot
Is but of the sixes: and yet we pay five pistoles
A dicker.
Sil. My lady's foot but o' the sixes? you lie, sirrah!
By Saint Hugh! there's never a lady i' th' land has a
Prettier foot and leg; if you ha' not spoil'd 'em
With your calf's-skin, sirrah.
La G. Why, the sixes is a good handsome size for a lady.
Latch. Lady, quotha! my life for her's, there's few ladies
I' the court go more upright, nor pay better:
I'll say that.
Sil. You say that? foh! I scorn to wear an inch
Of leather thy nasty flesh shall handle.
De L. O, your worthy friend, signior; and an elder in's parish;
A pikeman too for the republic. Come, come,
He shall be shoemaker to us all. Canst trust?
Latch. Trust, quotha! My name's Latchet, sir. I
Serv'd eleven years to my vocation, before I
Could be free, and have drunk many a good bowl
Of beer i' th' duchess's cellar since that.
De L. I like a man can answer so punctually
To a thing.
Latch. Thing, quotha! it is our trade, sir.
De L. Spoke like the warden of the company! [Exeunt.