Sci. Art a-swearing, too? Now, by my hood!
Your foolish knave's breech six stripes shall bear!
Wit. Yea, God's bones! fool and knave too? be ye there?
By the mass, call me fool once again,
And thou shalt sure call a blow or twain!
Exp. Come away, daughter! the fool is mad.
Wit. Nay, nor yet neither hence ye shall gad!
We will gree better, or ye pass hence.
I pray thee now, good sweet Lady Science!
All this strange manner now hide and cover,
And play the goodfellow with thy lover!
Sci. What good-fellowship would ye of me,
Whom ye know not, neither yet I know ye?
Wit. Know ye not me?
Sci. No! how should I know ye?
Wit. Doth not my picture my person show ye?
Sci. Your picture?
Wit. Yea, my picture, lady!
That ye spake of. Who sent it but I?