_Bac_.
Whats that in your pocket slave, my key you mungrell? thy
buttocks cannot be so hard, out with't quicklie.
_2_.
Here tis Sir, a small piece of Artillerie, that a gentleman a
deare friend of your Lordships sent me with to get it mended Sir;
for it you marke, the nose is somewhat loose.
_Bac_.
A friend of mine you rascall, I was never wearier of doing
nothing, then kicking these two foote-bals.
_Ser_.
Heres a good cudgell Sir.
_Bac_.
It comes too late; I am wearie, prethee doe thou beate um.
_2_.
My Lord this is foule play ifaith, to put a fresh man upon us;
Men, are but men.
_Bac_.
That jest shall save your bones, up with your rotten regiment,
and be gone; I had rather thresh, then be bound to kicke these
raskals, till they cride hold: _Bessus_ you may put your hand to
them now, and then you are quit. Farewell, as you like this,
pray visit mee againe, twill keepe me in good breath.
2.
Has a divellish hard foote, I never felt the like.
1.
Nor I, and yet Ime sure I ha felt a hundred.
2.
If he kicke thus ith dog-daies, he will be drie founderd: what
cure now Captaine, besides oyle of bayes?
_Bess_.
Why well enough I warrant you, you can goe.
2.
Yes, God be thanked; but I feele a shrewd ach, sure he has sprang
my huckle bone.
1.