Acut. Sir, take no offence, I beseech ye, we gave onlye satisfaction for an olde injurie, but in the degree of amitie your selfe sits in the superlative.
Bos. No sir, but in respect.
Gra. What kinde is your Dogge of, sir?
Bos. Verie kinde to anything but his meat, that hee devours with great alacritie.
Grac. Where was he bred?
Bos. In a Bitch.
Gra. What Countrie?
Bos. A kind of Mungrill, he will carrie but not fetch, marrie hee is to be put to a dauncing schoole for instruction.
Acut. The tricke of the rope were excellent in him, & that ile teach him, if I misse not my mark. Come, Gallants, we waste time, the first Taverne we arrive at weel see the race of an houre-glasse.
Phy. Can ye a part in a Song?