Ferd. Soliman.
Bow. So, allie, allie, Monseur.
Ferd. First, tell me, sawest thou Pembrooke come this way?
Bow. I saw him not.
Ferd. Farewell. [Exit.
Bow. As much to you. Zounds, these French think to outface us with a card of ten[131]: but, and his beard were made of brasse, Dicke Bowyer will make him know the discipline of war. Here comes another.
Enter Pembrooke.
Pem. Who's there? Dick Bowyer?
Bow. Some call me so: what then?
Pem. Pembrooke salutes thee.