_Onos._ 'Faith I will. _Con._ That's a good boy. _Unc._ Pray give not the child so much fruit, He's of a raw Complexion. _Euph._ You Monsieur hard eg[g]e, Do you remember me? Do you remember When you and your Consort travell'd through _Hungary_? _Con._ He's in that circuit still. _Euph._ Do you remember The cantell of immortal Cheese ye carried with ye, The half cold [C]abbedge in a leather Sachell, And those invincible Eggs that would lye in your bowells A fortnight together, and then turn to bedstaves; Your sowre milk that would choak an _Irish_ man, And bread was bak'd in _Cæsars_ time for the Army? _Con._ Providence, providence. _Tut._ The soul of travel. _Euph._ Can the boy speak yet? _Tut._ Yes, and as fine a Gentleman, I thank my able knowledge, he has arriv'd at, Only a little sparing of his Language, Which every man of observation-- _Unc._ And of as many tongues. _Tut._ Pray be content Sir, You know you are for the bodily part, the Purse, I for the magazin, the mind. _Euph._ Come hither springall. _On._ That in the _Almain_ Tongue signifies a Gentleman. _Euph._ What think you of the forms of _Italy_ or _Spain_? _Onos._ I love mine own Countrey Pippin. _Tut._ Nobly answer'd, Born for his Countrey first. _Euph._ A great Philosopher: What Horses do you prefer? _Onos._ The white horse Sir, There where I lye; honest and a just beast. _Tut._ O _caput lepidum_: a Child to say this, Are these figures for the mouths of Infants? _Con. Onos_, what wenches? Come, tell me true. _On._ I cannot speak without book. _Con._ When shall we have one, ha? _On._ Steal me from mine Unckle, For look you, I am broke out horribly For want of fleshly Physick: they say I am too young, And that 'twill spoyle my growth but could you help me? _Con._ Meet me to morrow man, no more. _Euph._ You think now Ye have open'd such a shame to me of travell, By shewing these thin Cubs: ye have honour'd us Against your will, proclaim'd us excellent: Three Frails of Sprats carried from Mart, to Mart, Are as much Meat as these, to more use travell'd; A bunch of bloted fools: me thinks your judgment Should look abroad sometimes without your envy. _Cra._ Such are most of you: so I take my leave, And when you find your Womens favor fail, Tis ten to one you'l know your self, and seek me Upon a better Muster of your manners. _Con._ This is not handsome Sir. _Euph._ Pray take your pleasure, You wound the wind as much-- _Cra._ Come you with me, I have business for you presently: there's for your Wine, I must confess I lost it. _On._ Shall I steal to ye And shall we see the Wench? _Con._ A dainty one. _On._ And have a dish of Pippins? _Con._ What a peck man.