Pis. Why, then you turn'd together, ass?
Fris. No, sir, we never saw one another since.
Pis. Why, turn'd you not both on the left hand?
Fris. No, forsooth: we turned both on the left hand.
Pis. Heyday! Why, yet you went both together.
Fris. Ah, no! we went clean contrary, one from another.
Pis. Why, dolt—why, patch—why, ass, on which hand turned ye?
Fris. Alas, alas! I cannot tell, forsooth: it was so dark I could not see on which hand we turned; but I am sure we turned one way.
Pis. Was ever creature plagued with such a dolt?
My son Vandal now hath lost himself,
And shall all night go straying 'bout the town;
Or meet with some strange watch that knows him not,
And all by such an arrant ass as this!
Anth. No, no, you may soon smell the Dutchman's lodging.
Now for a figure—Out, alas! what's yonder?