Fris. They'll sweare at dyce, forsweare their debts, and sweare when they loose their labour in love.
Io. Well, your maisters have much to answer for that bring ye up so wickedly.
Fris. Nay, my maister is damn'd, I'll be sworne, for his verie soule burnes in the firie eye of his faire mistresse.
Io. My maister is neither damnde nor dead, and yet is in the case of both your maisters, like a woodden shepheard and a sheepish woodman; for he is lost in seeking of a lost sheepe and spent in hunting a Doe that hee would faine strike.
Fris. Faith, and I am founderd with slinging to and fro with Chesnuts, Hazel-nuts, Bullaze and wildings[119] for presents from my maister to the faire shepheardesse.
Mop. And I am tierd like a Calf with carrying a Kidde every weeke to the cottage of my maister's sweet Lambkin.
Io. I am not tierd, but so wearie I cannot goe with following a maister that followes his mistresse, that followes her shadow, that followes the sunne, that followes his course.
Fris. That follows the colt, that followed the mare the man rode on to Midleton. Shall I speake a wise word?
Mop. Do, and wee will burne our caps.
Fris. Are not we fooles?