FRAN. Their souls! how mean ye?
PHIL. Sirrah, he means the soul of the bowl.
FRAN. Lord, how his wit holds bias like a bowl!
COOMES. Well, which is the bias?
FRAN. This next to you.
COOMES. Nay, turn it this way, then the bowl goes true.
BOY. Rub, rub!
COOMES. Why rub?
BOY. Why, you overcast the mark, and miss the way.
COOMES. Nay, boy, I use to take the fairest of my play.