_Hob._ Surely I will dance no more, 'tis most ridiculous, I find my wives instructions now mere verities, My learned wives, she often hath pronounc'd to me My safety _Bomby_, defie these sports, thou art damn'd else, This Beast of _Babylon_, I will never back again, His pace is sure prophane, and his lewd Wi-hees, The Sons of _Hymyn_ and _Gymyn_, in the wilderness. _Far._ Fie neighbor _Bomby_, in your fits again, Your zeal sweats, this is not careful, neighbor, The Hobby-horse, is a seemly Hobby-horse. _Soto._ And as pretty a beast on's inches, though I say it. _Hob._ The Beast is an unseemly, and a lewd Beast, And got at _Rome_ by the Popes Coach-Horses, His mother was the Mare of ignorance. _Soto._ Cobler thou ly'st, and thou wert a thousand Coblers. His mother was an honest Mare, and a Mare of good credit, I know the Mare, and if need be, can bring witness; And in the way of honesty I tell thee, Scorn'd any Coach-Horse the Pope had: thou art foolish, And thy blind zeal makes thee abuse the Beast. _Hob._ I do defie thee, and thy foot-cloth too, And tell thee to thy face, this prophane riding I feel it in my conscience, and I dare speak it, This un-edified ambling, hath brought a scourge upon us, This Hobby-horse sincerity we liv'd in War, and the sword of slaughter: I renounce it, And put the beast off; thus, the beast polluted, And now no more shall hop on high _Bomby_, Follow the painted pipes of high pleasures, And with the wicked, dance the devils measures; Away thou pamper'd jade of vanity, Stand at the Livery of lewd delights now, And eat the provinder of prick-ear'd folly, My dance shall be to the pipe of persecution. _Far._ Will you daunce no more neighbor? _Hob._ Surely no, Carry the Beast to his Crib: I have renounc'd him And all his works. _Soto._ Shall the Hobby-horse be forgot then? The hopeful Hobby-horse, shall he lye founder'd? If thou do'st this, thou art but a cast-away Cobler: My anger's up, think wisely, and think quickly, And look upon the _quondam_ beast of pleasure, If thou dost this (mark me, thou serious Sowter) Thou Bench-whistler of the old tribe of toe-pieces, If thou dost this, there shall be no more shooe-mending, Every man shall have a special care of his own soul: And in his pocket carry his two Confessors, His Yugel, and his Nawl: if thou dost this-- _Far._ He will dance again for certain. _Hob._ I cry out on't, 'Twas the fore-running sin brought in those Tilt-staves, They brandish 'gainst the Church, the devil calls _May_-poles. _Soto._ Take up your Horse again, and girth him to ye, And girth him handsomely, good neighbor _Bomby_. _Hob._ I spit at him. _Soto._ Spit in the Horse face, Cobler? Thou out of tune, _Psalm_-singing slave; spit in his visnomy?