Gan. Th'art a vyllayne.
Did. It may be so; your lordshypp can defyne me If you would shewe your readinge or your practyse.
Gan. Orlando is retournd.
Did. Tys well.
Gan. It is;
But it had beene better for your perjurd roaugshipp
Your harte had gordgd a hauke.
Did. Wa, ha ho, man!
Your buzarde is a kynde of byrde of prey,
Your lordship knowes too, that will feede on all
Unable to outflye or to resist,
But suche pursued her basenes and her sloathe
At once apeare. You understand me, sir?
Gan. Nowe a leane castrell[89] ceyze thee? Arte thou flesht? Must naught encounter you but byrds of rapyne?
Did. Good, good, you stretche a foule comparysson The best that I have hearde. But be assurd I am no scarabb for a castrells breakfast.
Gan. Why, you are growne a desperatt darringe rouge, A roaugue of noyse and clamor, are you not?
Did. And in dyspyghte of all your fearfull bells Of greatnes and aucthorytie, will tourne heade, Fly in thye bossome, and so stynge thee then That thou shalt curse thy beinge. [Exit Didier.