Char. Noble sonne,
What wouldst thou doe hadst thou a noble father!
But come, sir, synce you putt me to the test,
Resolve the doute: your fathers pardoned
When you shall meet me uppon no hye way.
Bus. Which even nowe I did: the fallowe lands, Newe plowed & tylld are free from passengers.
Char. Tys graunted; but your selfe, Sir, must not ryde Of horse nor mare nor asse, & yet the beast An usuall thynge for burthen.
Bus. Suche is myne, A Mule, that is the bastard breede betwyxte An asse & mare, & onlye fytt for labor.
Char. But, sir, you must be neyther cloathed nor naked.
Bus. Nor am I, myghtie Sir: thys pore thynne nett Nor leaves me nakt nor yet dothe cover me.
Char. You prettylie orereache me; but you must Bringe in your hand the faythfullst frend you challenge.
Bus. Thys is he, my faythfull trustye spanyell, The verye typpe & truthe of true affectyon.
Char. But with hym must be joynd your greatest enemye.
Bus. They are not farre assunder: a curst wife
Is evermore mans worst aflyctyon,
And shee that outgoes myne in bytternes
May fryght the whole worlde.