FRAN. No, Philip, no.
PHIL. What, wilt thou wear a point[232] but with one tag?
Well, Francis, well, I see you are a wag.
Enter COOMES.
COOMES. 'Swounds, where be these timber-turners, these trowl-the-bowls, these green-men, these—
FRAN. What, what, sir?
COOMES. These bowlers, sir.
FRAN. Well, sir, what say you to bowlers?
COOMES. Why, I say they cannot be saved.
FRAN. Your reason, sir?
COOMES. Because they throw away their souls at every mark.