Asin. Morrow Captaine Tucca, will you whiffe this morning?
Tuc. Art thou there goates pizzel; no godamercy Caine I am for no whiffs I, come hether sheep-skin-weauer, s’foote thou lookst as though th’adst beg’d out of a Iayle: drawe, I meane not thy face (for tis not worth drawing) but drawe neere: this way, martch, follow your commaunder you scoundrell: So, thou must run of an errand for mee Mephostophiles.
Hor. To doe you pleasure Captayne I will, but whether.
Tuc. To hell, thou knowst the way, to hell my fire and brimstone, to hell; dost stare my Sarsens-head at Newgate? dost gloate? Ile march through thy dunkirkes guts for shooting iestes at me.
Hor. Deare Captaine but one word.
Tuc. Out bench-whistler out, ile not take thy word for a dagger Pye: you browne-bread-mouth stinker, ile teach thee to turne me into Bankes his horse, and to tell gentlemen I am a Iugler, and can shew trickes.
Hor. Captaine Tucca, but halfe a word in your eare.
Tuc. No you staru’d rascal, thou’t bite off mine eares then, you must haue three or foure suites of names, when like a lowsie Pediculous vermin th’ast but one suite to thy backe: you must be call’d Asper, and Criticus, and Horace, thy tytle’s longer a reading then the Stile a the big Turkes: Asper, Criticus, Quintus, Horatius, Flaccus.
Hor. Captaine I know vpon what euen bases I stand, and therefore—
Tuc. Bases? wud the roague were but ready for me.