COOMES. "Marry, I thank ye for my very good cheer,--O Lord, it is not so much worth.--You see I am bold with ye.--Indeed, you are not so bold as welcome; I pray ye, come oft'ner.--Truly, I shall trouble ye." All these ceremonies are despatch'd between them, and they are gone. FRAN. Are they so? COOMES. Ay, before God, are they. FRAN. And wherefore came not you to call me then? COOMES. Because I was loth to change my game. FRAN. What game? COOMES. You were at one sort of bowls as I was at another. PHIL. Sirrah, he means the butt'ry bowls of beer. COOMES. By God, sir, we tickled it. FRAN. Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken ass? Canst thou not say but swear at every word? PHIL. Peace, do not mar his humour, prythee, Frank. COOMES. Let him alone; he's a springall; he knows not what belongs to an oath. FRAN. Sirrah, be quiet, or I do protest-- COOMES. Come, come, what do you protest? FRAN. By heaven, to crack your crown. COOMES. To crack my crown! I lay ye a crown of that, lay it down, and ye dare; nay, 'sblood, I'll venture a quarter's wages of that. Crack my crown, quotha! FRAN. Will ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me? COOMES. Urge ye, with a pox! who urges ye? You might have said so much to a clown, or one that had not been o'er the sea to see fashions: I have, I tell ye true; and I know what belongs to a man. Crack my crown, and ye can. FRAN. And I can, ye rascal! PHIL. Hold, hair-brain, hold! dost thou not see he's drunk? COOMES. Nay, let him come: though he be my master's son, I am my master's man, and a man is a man in any ground of England. Come, and he dares, a comes upon his death: I will not budge an inch, no, 'sblood, will I[236] not. FRAN. Will ye not? PHIL. Stay, prythee, Frank. Coomes, dost thou hear? COOMES. Hear me no hears: stand away, I'll trust none of you all. If I have my back against a cartwheel, I would not care if the devil came. PHIL. Why, ye fool, I am your friend. COOMES. Fool on your face! I have a wife. FRAN. She's a whore, then. COOMES. She's as honest as Nan Lawson. PHIL. What's she? COOMES. One of his whores. PHIL. Why, hath he so many? COOMES. Ay, as many as there be churches in London. PHIL. Why, that's a hundred and nine. BOY. Faith, he lies a hundred. PHIL. Then thou art a witness to nine. BOY. No, by God, I'll be witness to none. COOMES. Now do I stand like the George at Colebrook. BOY. No, thou stand'st like the Bull at St Alban's. COOMES. Boy, ye lie--the Horns.[237] BOY. The bull's bitten; see, how he butts! PHIL. Coomes, Coomes, put up;[238] my friend and thou art friends. COOMES. I'll hear him say so first. PHIL. Frank, prythee, do; be friends, and tell him so. FRAN. Go to, I am. BOY. Put up, sir; and ye be a man, put up. COOMES. I am easily persuaded, boy. PHIL. Ah, ye mad slave! COOMES. Come, come, a couple of whoremasters I found ye, and so I leave ye. [_Exit_.