SKINK. Of neither, John; I muse at my disgrace,
That I am thus kept prisoner in this place.
JOHN. O, sir, a number are here prisoners:
My cousin Morton, whom I came to visit.
But he (good man) is at his morrow mass;
But I, that neither care to say nor sing,
Come to seek that preaching hate and prayer,
And while they mumble up their orisons,
We'll play a game at bowls. What say'st thou, Gloster?
SKINK. I care not, if I do.
JOHN. You do not care,
Let old men care for graves, we for our sports;
Off with your gown, there lies my hat and cloak,
The bowls there quickly, ho?
SKINK. No, my gown stirs not; it keeps sorrow warm,
And she and I am not to be divorced.
Enter PORTER with bowls.
JOHN. Yes, there's an axe must part your head and you,
And with your head sorrow will leave your heart.
But come, shall I begin? a pound a game?
SKINK. More pounds, and we thus heavy? well, begin.
JOHN. Rub, rub, rub, rub.
SKINK. Amen, God send it short enough, and me
A safe running with these[482] clothes from thee.