MAL. How now? who's that, brother? who's that with ye?
PHIL. A gentleman, my friend.
MAL. By'r lady, he hath a pure wit.
FRAN. How meane your holy judgment?
MAL. O, well put-in, sir!
FRAN. Up, you would say.
MAL. Well climb'd, gentleman!
I pray, sir, tell me, do you cart the queen of love?
FRAN. Not cart her, but couch her in your eye,
And a fit place for gentle love to lie.
MAL. Ay, but methinks you speak without the book,
To place a four[322]-wheel waggon in my look:
Where will you have room to have the coachman sit?
FRAN. Nay, that were but small manners, and not fit:
His duty is before you bare to stand,
Having a lusty whipstock[323] in his hand.