|1250| _Mini._ Nay trulie Captaine you shall be my leader.
_Tuc._ I say Mary Ambree, thou shalt march formost, Because Ile marke how broad th’art in the heeles.
_Mini._ Perdie, I will be set ath last for this time.
_Tuc._ Why then come, we’ll walke arme in arme, |1255| As tho we were leading one another to Newgate.
_Enter_ Blunt, Crispinus, _and_ Demetrius, _with papers, laughing._
_Cri._ Mine’s of a fashion, cut out quite from yours.
_Dem._ Mine has the sharpest tooth, yonder he is.
|1260| _Tuc._ How now? I cannot stand to read supplications now.
_Cris._ They’re bitter Epigrams compos’d on you By Horace.
_Dem._ And disperst amongst the gallants In seuerall coppies, by Asinius Bubo.
|1265| _Tuc._ By that liue Eele? read, _Lege Legito_, read thou Iacke.
_Blu._ _Tucca’s growne monstrous, how? rich? that I feare, He’s to be seene for money euery where._
_Tuc._ Why true, shall not I get in my debts, nay and the roague write no better I care not, farewell blacke Iacke farewell.
|1270| _Cri._ But Captaine heer’s a nettle.
_Cri._ _Tucca’s exceeding tall and yet not hye, He fights with skill, but does most vilye lye._
_Tuc._ Right, for heere I lye now, open, open, to make my |1275| aduersarie come on; and then Sir, heere am I in’s bosome: nay and this be the worst, I shal hug the poore honest face-maker, Ile loue the little Atheist, when he writes after my commendation, another whip? come yerke me.
_Dem._ _Tucca will bite, how? growne Satiricall, |1280| No, he bites tables, for he feedes on all._
_Tuc._ The whoreson clouen-foote deuill in mans apparell lyes, There stood aboue forty dishes before me to day, That I nere toucht, because they were empty.
_Min._ I am witnes young Gentlemen to that.
|1285| _Tuc._ Farewell stinckers, I smel thy meaning Screech-owle, I doe tho I stop my nose: and Sirra Poet, we’ll haue thee vntrust for this; come, mother Mum-pudding, come.
_Trumpets sound a florish, and then a sennate: Enter_ King _with_ Cælestine, Sir Walter Terrill, Sir Quintilian, Sir Adam, Blunt |1290| _and other Ladies and attendants: whilst the Trumpets sound the King_ _takes his leaue of the Bride-groome, and_ Sir Quintilian, _and last of the Bride._
_Kin._ My song of parting doth this burden beare; A kisse the Ditty, and I set it heere. |1295| Your lips are well in tune, strung with delight, By this faire Bride remember soone at night: Sir Walter.