_Actvs Primvs_. SCAENA PRIMA. _Enter Bullaker with a Torche_. _Bullaker_. This is the Countesse _Eugenias_ house, I thinke. I can never hit of theis same English City howses, tho I were borne here: if I were in any City in _Fraunce_, I could find any house there at midnight. _Enter Iack, and Will_. _Iack_. Theis two strange hungry Knights (_Will_) make the leanest trenchers that ever I waited on. _Will_. A plague on them _Iack_; they leave us no fees at all, for our attendance. I thinke they use to set their bones in silver they pick them so cleane.--See, see, see, _Iack_, whats that. _Iack_. A my word (_Will_) tis the great _Baboone_, that was to be seen in _Southwarke_. _Will_. Is this he? Gods my life what beastes were we, that we wood not see him all this while, never trust me if he looke not somewhat like a man: see how pretely he holds the torche in one of his forefeete: wheres his keeper trowe, is he broke loose? _Iack_. Hast ever an Apple about thee (_Will_)? Weele take him up; sure, we shall get a monstrous deale of mony with him. _Will_. That we shall yfath, boy! and looke thou here, heres a red cheeckt apple to take him up with. _Ia_. Excellent fit a my credit; lets lay downe our provant, and to him. _Bul_. Ile let them alone a while. _Ia_. Give me the apple to take up _Iack_, because my name is _Iack_. _Will_. Hold thee, _Iack_, take it. _Ia_. Come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_, come, _Iack_. _Bul_. I will come to you sir, Ile _Iack_ ye a my word, Ile _Iack_ ye. _Will_. Gods me he speakes, _Iack_. O pray pardon us, Sir. _Bul_. Out, ye _mopede monckies_, can yee not knowe a man from a _Marmasett_, in theis Frenchified dayes of ours? nay, ile _Iackefie_ you a little better yet. _Both_. Nay good Sir, good Sir, pardon us. _Bul_. Pardon us! out ye home-bred peasants, plain English, pardon us? if you had parled, & not spoken, but said _Pardonne moy_, I wood have pardon'd you, but since you speake and not parley, I will cudgell ye better yet. _Ambo_. _O pardonne moy, mounsieur_. _Bul_. _Bien je vous remercy_; thers _pardonne four vous_, sir, now. _Will_. Why I thanke ye for it, Sir; you seeme to bee a Squire of our order Sir. _Ia_. Whose page might you be Sir. _Bul_. I am now the great French Travalers page. _Will_. Or rather the _French_ Travalers great page, Sir; on, on. _Bul_. Hight Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations; whose valours within here at super with the Countes _Eugenia_, whose propper eaters I take you two to be. _Will_. You mistake us not Sir. _Ia_. This Captaine _Fowleweather_, alias Commendations-- _Will_. Is the Gallant that will needs be a sutor to our Countes. _Bul_.[1] Faith, and if Fouleweather be a welcome suter to a faire Lady, has good lucke.