BUB. Yes, indeed, lady. JOYCE. Nay, that you are not. BUB. So God ha' me, I am, lady: you never saw An erranter ass in your life. JOYCE. Why, here's a gentleman, your friend, will not say so. BUB. I' faith, but he shall: how say you, sir? Am not I an ass? SCAT. Yes, by my troth, lady, is he. Why, I'll say anything my brother Bubble says. [_Aside._] GERT. Is this the man my father chose for me, To make a husband of? O God, how blind Are parents in our loves! so they have wealth, They care not to what things they marry us. BUB. Pray, look upon me, lady. JOYCE. So I do, sir. BUB. Ay, but look upon me well, and tell me if ever you saw any man look so scurvily as I do? JOYCE. The fellow, sure, is frantic. [_Aside._] BUB. You do not mark me. JOYCE. Yes, indeed, sir. BUB. Ay, but look upon me well: Did you ever see a worse-timber'd leg? JOYCE. By my faith, 'tis a pretty four-square leg. BUB. Ay, but your four-square legs are none of the best. O Gervase, Gervase! [_Aside._] STAINES. Excellent well, sir. BUB. What say you now to me, lady? Can you find E'er a good inch about me? JOYCE. Yes, that I can, sir. BUB. Find it and take it, sweet lady. There I think I bobbed her, Gervase. [_Aside._] JOYCE. Well, sir, disparage not yourself so: For, if you were the man you'd make yourself, Yet out of your behaviour and discourse I could find cause enough to love you. BUB. Ah! now she comes to me. [_Aside._] My behaviour! alas, alas! 'tis clownical; and my discourse is very bald--bald; you shall not hear me break a good jest in a twelvemonth. JOYCE. No, sir? why, now you break a good jest. BUB. No, I want the _bon jour_ and the _Tu quoques_ which yonder gentleman has. There's a bob for him too. [_Aside._] There's a gentleman, an you talk of a gentleman! JOYCE. Who, he? he's a coxcomb, indeed. BUB. We are sworn brothers, in good faith, lady. _Enter_ SERVANT. SCAT. Yes, in truth, we are sworn brothers, and do mean to go both alike, and to have horses alike. JOYCE. And they shall be sworn brothers, too? SCAT. If it please them, lady. SER. Master Balance the goldsmith desires to speak with you. SIR LIONEL. Bid him come, knave. SCAT. I wonder, Sir Lionel, your son, Will Rash, is not here. SIR LIONEL. Is he of your acquaintance, sir? SCAT. O, very familiar: he struck me a box o' th' ear once, and from thence grew my love to him. _Enter_ BALANCE. SIR LIONEL. It was a sign of virtue in you, sir; but he'll be here at dinner. Master Balance, what makes you so strange? Come, you're welcome; what's the news?