BOY. Or of that complexion.
FRAN. What's that ye call complexion in a horse?
BOY. The colour, sir.
FRAN. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will—
BOY. Nay, good sir, hold your hands!
FRAN. What, shall we have it?
BOY. Why, sir, I cannot paint.
FRAN. Well, then, I can;
And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir.
BOY. Then I must find the table, if you do.
FRAN. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchin!