Mat. Do you hear, sir?
Orl. So, sir, I do hear, sir, more of you than you dream I do.
Mat. You fly a little too high, sir.
Orl. Why, sir, too high?
Mat. I ha’ suffered your tongue, like a bard cater-tray,[280] to run all this while, and ha’ not stopt it.
Orl. Well, sir, you talk like a gamester.
Mat. If you come to bark at her, because she’s a poor rogue, look you, here’s a fine path, sir, and there, there’s the door.
Bell. Matheo?
Mat. Your blue coats stay for you, sir. I love a good honest roaring boy, and so—