Mop. That neuer knowes his cattell but by their hornes.
Fris. Sirrha, so you might haue said of your maister sheep.
Io. I, marry, this takes fier like touch powder, and goes off with a huffe.
Fris. They come of crick-cracks, and shake their tayles like a squib.
Io. Ha, you Rogues, the very steele of my wit shall strike fier from the flint of your vnderstandings; haue you not heard of me?
Mop. Yes, if you be the Ioculo that I take you for, we haue heard of your exployts for cosoning of some seuen and thirtie Alewiues in the Villages here about.
Io. A wit as nimble as a Sempsters needle or a girles finger at her Buske poynt.
Mop. Your iest goes too low, sir.
Fris. O but tis a tickling iest.
Io. Who wold haue thought to haue found this in a plaine villaine that neuer woare better garment than a greene Ierkin?