GLOUCESTER.
What’s thine own name?
SIMPCOX.
Sander Simpcox, an if it please you, master.
GLOUCESTER.
Then, Sander, sit there, the lyingest knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly to nominate them all, it is impossible.—My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore this cripple to his legs again?
SIMPCOX.
O master, that you could!
GLOUCESTER.
My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things called whips?
MAYOR.
Yes, my lord, if it please your grace.
GLOUCESTER.
Then send for one presently.
MAYOR.
Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.
[Exit a Townsman.]
GLOUCESTER.
Now fetch me a stool hither by and by.—Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over this stool and run away.