+De L.+ The wenches swear, he kisses like a giant still; And will ride his heats as cleanly as a dieted Gelding. Let's fall in. Signior Silliman! My best wishes kiss your hand. +La G.+ Continue me worthy of the title of your servant, sir. +Sil.+ I am very glad to see you well; and hope you are In good health and sound, gentlemen. +La G.+ And when shall's draw cuts again for a Wench, signior, ha? +Sil.+ Your pleasure [is] to say so. +De L.+ The slave's rose-drunk, o' my life. +Sil.+ Please you to take notice of my worthy friend here. +De L.+ Your admirer, sir. [_Salutes +Messenger+._ +La G.+ Slave to your sedan, sir. +Mes.+ God bless the good duchess, and all that love the King, I say, gentlemen, an't like ye. +De L.+ Pray, sir, what news abroad, or at court? +Mes.+ News, quotha! Indeed, sir, the truth is I am a Shoemaker by my trade; my name is Latchet, And I work to some ladies in the house here, Though I say't myself; and yet the times were Never harder, nor leather dearer. +De L.+ This winter will make amends; You shall have horsehides cheap, horsehides dog-cheap. +Latch.+ Cheap, quotha! Why, sir, I'll tell you, (for you Look like a very honest gentleman), I am put to Find a pike myself; and must, the parish swears, Or lose all the shoes in my shop. +De L.+ 'Tis very brave! Why, you look like a champion; And have a face the parish may confide in. +Latch.+ Fide, quotha! sir; be judge yourself, if ever You knew the like. I have been at the trade This forty years, off and on; and those children's Shoes, I have sold for sixpence or a groat upon some Occasion, we now sell for twelvepence, as they say. +De L.+ Then the misery is, you get the more. +Latch.+ More, quotha! Pray, sir, a word. You are a Courtier, if I may be so bold. They say we must All be fain to shut up shop, and mortgage Our wives to the soldiers. D'ye hear any Such talk, sir? +De L.+ Some buzzing: but the blades will not accept 'em Without special articles and a flock of money and Plate, to keep the babies they shall beget valiant. +Latch.+ Valiant, quoth-a! Truly, sir, I'll tell ye, On the truth of a poor man, my Lady de Prate's foot Is but of the sixes: and yet we pay five pistoles A dicker. +Sil.+ My lady's foot but o' the sixes? you lie, sirrah! By Saint Hugh! there's never a lady i' th' land has a Prettier foot and leg; if you ha' not spoil'd 'em With your calf's-skin, sirrah. +La G.+ Why, the sixes is a good handsome size for a lady. +Latch.+ Lady, quotha! my life for her's, there's few ladies I' the court go more upright, nor pay better: I'll say that. +Sil.+ You say that? foh! I scorn to wear an inch Of leather thy nasty flesh shall handle.