Enter Slipper one way, and Sir Bartram another way.
Sir Bar. Ho, fellow! stay, and let me speak with thee.
Slip. Fellow! friend, thou dost disbuse me; I am a gentleman.
Sir Bar. A gentleman! how so?
Slip. Why, I rub horses, sir.
Sir Bar. And what of that?
Slip. O simple-witted! mark my reason. They that do good service in the commonweal are gentlemen; but such as rub horses do good service in the commonweal; ergo, tarbox, master courtier, a horse-keeper is a gentleman.
Sir Bar. Here is overmuch wit, in good earnest. But, sirrah, where is thy master?
Slip. Neither above ground nor under ground, drawing out red into white, swallowing that down without chawing that was never made without treading.
Sir Bar. Why, where is he, then?