Prate. Come, wife, methought our party stood stifly to it.
Pre. Indeed they were stiff, whilst they stood; but when they were down, they were like men of a low world. A man might have wound their worst anger about his finger.
Lol. Go to, sirrah, you must have your fool's bolt in everybody's quiver.
Pre. Indeed, mistress, if my master should break his arrow with foul shooting or so, I would be glad if mine might supply the hole[162].
Prate. I find you kind, sir.
Pre. True, sir, according to my kind, and to pleasure my kind mistress.
Prate. Go to, sirrah, I will not have your kindness to intermeddle with her kind; she is meat for your master.
Pre. And your man, sir, may lick your foul trencher.
Col. Ay, but not eat of his mutton.
Pre. Yet I may dip my bread in the wool, Mistress Collaquintida.