_Bow_. As much to you. Zounds, these French think to outface us with a card of ten[131]: but, and his beard were made of brasse, Dicke Bowyer will make him know the discipline of war. Here comes another. _Enter Pembrooke_. _Pem_. Who's there? Dick Bowyer? _Bow_. Some call me so: what then? _Pem_. Pembrooke salutes thee. _Bow_. O good morrow, my Lord, good morrow. _Pem_. I prythee, Captayne, sawst thou Ferdinand, Sonne to Navar, as thou didst walke the round. _Bow_. Even now, my Lord, he past along this way. _Pem_. Himselfe alone? or had he company? _Bow_. Nay, questionlesse, he was alone, my Lord. _Pem_. Couldst thou discerne his face? how did he looke? _Bow_. Faith, scurvily, my Lord, like a greene cheese or the inside of a rotten Pumpian.[132] _Pem_. There is Crownes for thee to drinke. [_Exit Pem_. _Bow_. I thanke your Lordship. To see the difference betweene these French Curres and our English Cavaliers! There's as much bounty in them as there's Marchpane in a dish of Almond butter. I might have stood heere till my teeth chatter in my head e're the tother Launcepresado[133] would have sayd, Here, Captayn Bowyer, there's a Cardicue[134] to wash downe melancholy. But, had I knowne as much, I would have basted him till his bones had rattled in his skin. _Enter Core and other Souldiers bringing in the Clowne_. _All_. Come, sir, you shall answere your walking before our Captayne. _Clow_. Well, sirs, take heed what you doe: I am a Princes man; if you stay me upon the kings hye way I can lay fellowship to your charge. _Core_. But, sirra, we can lay Treason to thine for being without the word. _Clow_. Without the word! O pernicious Frenchman! without the word! why, I have call'd thee Villayne, him Rascall, this Slave, that Rogue; and am I still without the word. _Core_. I, sir, the word that must serve your turne, the Watch-word. _Clow_. Fayth, y'are like to watch this twelve moneth ere you have any other words at my hands. _Bow_. How now, masters? what calfe are you dragging to the slaughter-house there, ha? _Core_. A stragler and a spy, Captayne, I pray examine him. _Bow_. So, Lieutenant Core, you are crept from your cups at last: Ile talke with you anon. But, sirra, to you: From whence come you? _Clow_. I came, Sir, from the king of Fraunces campe. _Bow_. So, what's your name? _Clow_. My name, sir, is Bow wow. _Bow_. S'hart, what a name's that! the Hedge-hog mocks us. Bow wow, quotha? what kin art thou to the generation of Dogges? _Clow_. No dog, sir: would you should know it, though I be encompast with curres. _Bow_. Zounds, he calls us curres! hang the hotch-potch up in a fathom or two of match. _Clow_. Not you, sir; I call not you so. I know you to be a very insufficient ill-spoken Gentleman. _Bow_. Well, sirra, whom do you serve? _Clow_. My master, sir, is the Lady Catherine, the French king's daughter. I have bin abroad about some businesse of hers, and am now going backe againe.