[_Exeunt_. _Enter_ PHILIP, FRANCIS, _and his_ BOY, _from bowling_. PHIL. Come on, Frank Goursey: you have had good luck To win the game. FRAN. Why, tell me, is't not good, That never play'd before upon your green? PHIL. 'Tis good, but that it cost me ten good crowns; That makes it worse. FRAN. Let it not grieve thee, man; come o'er to us; We will devise some game to make you win Your money back again, sweet Philip. PHIL. And that shall be ere long, and if I live: But tell me, Francis, what good horses have ye, To hunt this summer? FRAN. Two or three jades, or so. PHIL. Be they but jades? FRAN. No, faith; my wag-string here Did founder one the last time that he rid-- The best grey nag that ever I laid my leg over. BOY. You mean the flea-bitten. FRAN. Good sir, the same. BOY. And was the same the best that e'er you rid on? FRAN. Ay, was it, sir. BOY. I'faith, it was not, sir. FRAN. No! where had I one so good? BOY. One of my colour, and a better too. FRAN. One of your colour? I ne'er remember him: One of that colour! BOY. Or of that complexion. FRAN. What's that ye call complexion in a horse? BOY. The colour, sir. FRAN. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will-- BOY. Nay, good sir, hold your hands! FRAN. What, shall we have it? BOY. Why, sir, I cannot paint. FRAN. Well, then, I can; And I shall find a pencil for ye, sir. BOY. Then I must find the table, if you do. FRAN. A whoreson, barren, wicked urchin! BOY. Look how you chafe! you would be angry more, If I should tell it you. FRAN. Go to, I'll anger ye, and if you do not. BOY. Why, sir, the horse that I do mean Hath a leg both straight and clean, That hath nor spaven, splint, nor flaw, But is the best that ever ye saw; A pretty rising knee--O knee! It is as round as round may be; The full flank makes the buttock round: This palfrey standeth on no ground, When as my master's on her back, If that he once do say but, tack:[229] And if he prick her, you shall see Her gallop amain, she is so free; And if he give her but a nod, She thinks it is a riding-rod; And if he'll have her softly go, Then she trips it like a doe; She comes so easy with the rein, A twine-thread turns her back again; And truly I did ne'er see yet A horse play proudlier on the bit: My master with good managing Brought her first unto the ring;[230] He likewise taught her to corvet, To run, and suddenly to set; She's cunning in the wild-goose race, Nay, she's apt to every pace; And to prove her colour good, A flea, enamour'd of her blood, Digg'd for channels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck: I think there's none that use to ride But can her pleasant trot abide; She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day; And when my master-- FRAN. What do I? BOY. Nay, nothing, sir.