_Sir quin._ And one of vs thou shalt haue widdow.
_Min._ One I must haue, for now euery one seekes to crow ouer |725| me.
_Sir Vaug._ By Sesu and if I finde any crowing ouer you, & he were a cocke (come out as farre as in Turkeys country) tis possible to cut his combe off.
_Min._ I muse why sir Adam Prickshaft flyes so farre from vs.
|730| _Sir Adam._ I am in a browne study, my deare, if loue should bee turned into a beast, what beast hee were fit to bee turned into.
_Sir quinti._ I thinke Sir Adam an Asse, because of his bearing.
_Min._ I thinke (sauing your reuerence) Sir Adam a puppy, for |735| a dog is the most louing creature to a christian that is, vnles it be a childe.
_Sir Ad._ No, I thinke if loue should bee turn’d away, and goe to serue any beast, it must bee an Ape, and my reason----
_Sir Vaugh._ Sir Adam, an Ape? ther’s no more reason in an Ape, |740| than in a very plaine Monkey; for an Ape has no tayle, but we all know, or tis our duty to know, loue has two tailes; In my sudsment, if loue be a beast, that beast is a bunce of Reddis; for a bunce of Reddis is wise meate without Mutton, and so is loue.
|745| _Mi._ Ther’s the yawning Captaine (sauing your reuerence that has such a sore mouth) would one day needes perswade me, that loue was a Rebato; and his reason was (sauing your reuerence) that a Rebato was worne out with pinning too often; and so he said loue was.
|750| _Sir Vaugh._ And Master Captaine Tucca sayd wisely too, loue is a Rebato indeede: a Rebato must be poaked; now many women weare Rebatoes, and many that weare Rebatoes----
_Sir Vau._ Sir Adam Prickshaft has hit the cloute.
|755| _Sir qui._ The Musicke speakes to vs, we’ll haue a daunce before dinner.
_Enter_ Sir Walter Terrill, Cælestine, Blunt, Crispinus, _and_ Demetrius, _euery one with a Lady_.
|760| _Ter._ Father the King’s at hand. Musicke talke lowder, that thy siluer voice, May reach my Soueraignes eares.
_Sir Vaug._ I pray doe so, Musitions bestir your fingers, that you may haue vs all by the eares.
|765| _Sir quin._ His Grace comes, a Hall varlets, where be my men? blow, blow your colde Trumpets till they sweate; tickle them till they sound agen.
|770| _Sir Vaug._ Pray all stand bare, as well men as women: Sir Adam is best you hide your head for feare your wise braines take key-colde: on afore Sir Kintilian; Sentlemen fall in before the Ladyes, in seemely order and fashion; so this is comelye.