LANCE.
A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.
SPEED.
Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak’st me.
LANCE.
Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master.
SPEED.
I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.
LANCE.
Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian.
SPEED.
Why?
LANCE.
Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?
SPEED.
At thy service.
[Exeunt.]