BOY. So, sir.
COOMES. Go to. I pray, correct your boy; 'twas ne'er a good world, since a boy would face a man so.
FRAN. Go to. Forward, man.
COOMES. Well, sir, so it is, I would not wish ye to marry without my mistress' consent.
FRAN. And why?
COOMES. Nay, there's ne'er a why but there is a wherefore; I have known some have done the like, and they have danc'd a galliard at beggars'-bush[340] for it.
BOY. At beggars'-bush! Hear him no more, master; he doth bedaub ye with his dirty speech. Do ye hear, sir? how far stands beggars'-bush from your father's house, sir? Why, thou whoreson refuge[341] of a tailor, that wert 'prentice to a tailor half an age, and because, if thou hadst served ten ages thou wouldst prove but a botcher, thou leapst from the shop-board to a blue coat, doth it become thee to use thy terms so? well, thou degree above a hackney, and ten degrees under a page, sew up your lubber lips, or 'tis not your sword and buckler shall keep my poniard from your breast.
COOMES. Do ye hear, sir? this is your boy.
FRAN. How then?
COOMES. You must breech him for it.