MASTER BONGRACE.
Hence, at once seek and smell him out;
I shall rap thee on the lying knave's snout:
I woll not be deluded with such a glossing lie,
Nor give credence, till I see it with my own eye.
CAREAWAY.
Truly, good sir, by your mastership's favour,
I cannot well find a knave by the savour;
Many here smell strong, but none so rank as he:
A stronger-scented knave than he was cannot be.
But, sir, if he be haply found anon,
What amends shall I have for that you have me done?
MASTER BONGRACE.
If he may be found, I shall walk his coat.
CAREAWAY.
Yea, for our lady's sake, sir, I beseech you spare him not,
For it is some false knave withouten doubt.
I had rather than forty pence we could find him out;
For, if a man may believe a glass,
Even my very own self it was.
And here he was but even right now,
And stepped away suddenly, I wot not how.
Of such another thing I have neither heard ne seen,
By our blessed lady, heaven queen!
MASTER BONGRACE.
Plainly it was thy shadow, that thou didst see;
For, in faith, the other thing is not possible to be.
CAREAWAY.
Yes, in good faith, sir, by your leave,
I know it was I by my apples in my sleeve,
And speaketh as like me as ever you heard:[203]
Such hair, such a cap, such hose and coat,
And in everything as just as fourpence to a groat.
That if he were here, you should well see,
That you could not discern nor know him from me;
For think you, that I do not myself know?
I am not so foolish a knave, I trow.
Let who woll look him by and by,
And he woll depose upon a book that he is I;
And I dare well say you woll say the same;
For he called himself by my own name.
And he told me all that I have done,
Sith five of the clock this afternoon,
He could tell when you were to supper set
[When] you send me home my mistress to fet,
And showed me all things that I did by the way—
BONGRACE.
What was that?
CAREAWAY. How I did at the bucklers play;
And when I scattered a basket of apples from a stall,
And gathered them into my sleeve all,
And how I played after that also—
BONGRACE.
Thou shalt have, boy, therefore,[204] so mote I go;
Is that the guise of a trusty page,
To play, when he is sent on his master's message?
DAME COY.
Lay on and spare not, for the love of Christ,
Joll his head to a post,[205] and favour your fist!
Now for my sake, sweetheart, spare and favour your hand,
And lay him about the ribs with this wand.