SIR RALPH. Why, what a pox, wert thou so near me, man,
And wouldst not speak?
FRAN. 'Sblood, ye're very hot.
SIR RALPH. No, sir, I am cold enough with staying here
For such a knave as you.
FRAN. Knave! how now, Philip?
Art mad, art mad?
SIR RALPH. Why, art not thou my man,
That went to fetch my bow?[367]
FRAN. Indeed, a bow
Might shoot me ten bows down the weather so:
I your man!
SIR RALPH. What art thou, then?
FRAN. A man: but what's thy name?
SIR RALPH. Some call me Ralph.
FRAN. Then, honest Ralph, farewell.