M. MERRY. He is ashamed the number of them to show. E'en round about him as many thousand sheep goes, As he and thou, and I too, have fingers and toes. M. MUMBL. And how many years old be you? R. ROISTER. Forty at least. M. MERRY. Yea, and thrice forty to them. R. ROISTER. Nay, thou dost jest. I am not so old: thou misreckonest my years. M. MERRY. I know that; but my mind was on bullocks and steers. M. MUMBL. And what shall I show her your mastership's name is? R. ROISTER. Nay, she shall make suit, ere she know that, i-wis. M. MUMBL. Yet let me somewhat know. M. MERRY. This is he, understand That killed the blue spider in Blanchepowder land. M. MUMBL. Yea, Jesus, William, zee, law! did he zo, law? M. MERRY. Yea, and the last elephant that ever he saw, As the beast passed by, he start out of a busk,[82] And e'en with pure strength of arms plucked out his great tusk. M. MUMBL. Jesus, _Nomine Patris_, what a thing was that! R. ROISTER. Yea, but, Merrygreek, one thing thou hast forgot. M. MERRY. What? R. ROISTER. Of th' other elephant. M. MERRY. O, him that fled away? R. ROISTER. Yea. M. MERRY. Yea, he knew that his match was in place that day. Tut, he bet the King of Crickets on Christmas-day, That he crept in a hole, and not a word to say. M. MUMBL. A sore man, by zembletee.[83] M. MERRY. Why, he wrong a club Once in a fray out of the hand of Belzebub. R. ROISTER. And how when Mumfision-- M. MERRY. O, your costreling Bore the lantern a-field so before the gozeling---- Nay, that is too long a matter now to be told. Never ask his name, nurse, I warrant thee, be bold: He conquered in one day from Rome to Naples, And won towns, nurse, as fast as thou canst make apples. M. MUMBL. O Lord! my heart quaketh for fear, he is so sore. R. ROISTER. Thou makest her too much afeard, Merrygreek; no more. This tale would fear my sweetheart Custance right evil. M. MERRY. Nay, let her take him, nurse, and fear not the devil. But thus is our song dasht--sirs, ye may home again. [_To the music._ R. ROISTER. No, shall they not. I charge you all here to remain: The villain slaves!--a whole day, ere they can be found! M. MERRY. Couch on your marybones, whoresons, down to the ground! Was it meet he should tarry so long in one place, Without harmony of music or some solace? Whoso hath such bees as your master in his head Had need to have his spirits with music be fed. By your mastership's licence-- R. ROISTER. What is that? a mote! M. MERRY. No, it was a fowl's feather had light on your coat. R. ROISTER. I was nigh no feathers, since I came from my bed. M. MERRY. No, sir, it was a hair that was fall from your head. R. ROISTER. My men come, when it please them.