_Fool._ Fine wits, fine wits Sir, There's the young Boy, he does well in his way too, He could not live else in his Masters absence; He tyes a Ladyes garters so, so prettily, Say his hand slip, but say so.
_Fool._ 'Tis ten to one the body shall come after, And he that works deserves his wages.
_Fool._ He riddles finely to a waiting Gentlewoman, Expounds dreams like a Prophet, dreams himself too, And wishes all dreams true; they cry Amen, And there's a _Memorandum_: he can sing too Bawdy enough to please old Ladies: he lies rarely, Pawns ye a sute of clothes at all points, fully, Can pick a pocket if ye please, or casket; Lisps when he lists to catch a Chambermaid, And calls his Hostess mother, these are things now, If a man mean to live: to fight and swagger, Beaten about the Ears with bawling sheepskins, Cut to the soul for Summer: here an arm lost, And there a leg; his honourable head Seal'd up in salves and cereclothes, like a packet, And so sent over to an Hospital, stand there, charge there, Swear there, whore there, dead there, And all this sport for cheese, and chines of dog-flesh, And mony when two wednesdayes meet together, Where to be lowzie is a Gentleman, And he that wears a clean shirt has his shrowd on.
_Chi._ I'le be your scholar, come if I like fooling.
_Fool._ You cannot choose but like it, fight you one day I'le fool another, when your Surgeon's paid, And all your leaks stopt, see whose slops are heaviest, I'le have a shilling for a can of wine, When you shall have two Sergeants for a Counter.
_Boy._ Come learn of us Lieutenant, hang your Iron up, We'l find you cooler wars.
_Chi._ Come let's together, I'le see your tricks, and as I like 'em.-- [_Exeunt._
_Mem._ Why was there not such women in the camp then Prepar'd to make me know 'em?
_1 Capt._ Why should they live in Tumults? they are creatures Soft and of sober natures.
_Mem._ Cou'd not your wives, Your Mothers, or your Sisters have been sent for To exercise upon?
_Mem._ To see her, And see thee hang'd too an thou anger'st me, And thousands of your throats cut, get ye from me, Ye keep a prating of your points of manners, And fill my head with lowzie circumstances, Better have Ballads in't, your courtly worships, How to put off my hat, you, how to turn me, And you (forsooth) to blow my nose discreetly; Let me alone, for I will love her, see her, Talk to her, and mine own way.