Hor. Th’ast a Coppy of mine Odes to, hast not Bubo?
Asi. Your odes? O that which you spake by word a mouth at th’ ordinary, when Musco the gull cryed Mew at it.
Hor. A pox on him poore braineles Rooke: and you remember, I tolde him his wit lay at pawne with his new Sattin sute, and both would be lost, for not fetching home by a day.
Asi. At which he would faine ha blusht but that his painted cheekes would not let him.
Hor. Nay sirra the Palinode, which I meane to stitch to my Reuels, shall be the best and ingenious peece that euer I swet for; stay roague, Ile fat thy spleane and make it plumpe with laughter.
Asi. Shall I? fayth Ningle, shall I see thy secrets?
Hor. Puh my friends.
Asi. But what fardle’s that? what fardle’s that?
Hor. Fardle, away, tis my packet; heere lyes intoomb’d the loues of Knights and Earles, heere tis, heere tis, heere tis, Sir Walter Terils letter to me, and my answere to him: I no sooner opened his letter, but there appeared to me three glorious Angels, whome I ador’d as subiectes doe their Soueraignes: the honest knight Angles for my acquaintance, with such golden baites— but why doost laugh my good roague? how is my answere, prethee, how, how?