of Feuershame.
Cla.
Sick, of what disease?
Mic.
Of a great feare.
Cla.
A feare, of what?
Mic.
A great feuer.
Cla.
A feuer God forbidde.
Mic.
Yes faith, and of a lordaine too,
As bigge as your selfe.
Cla.
O Michael the spleane prickles you.
Go too, you carry an eye ouer mistres susan.
Mic.
I faith, to keepe her from the Painter.
Cla.
Why more from a Painter, then from a seruing creature like your selfe.
Mic.
Because you Painters make but a painting fable of a pretty wench, and spoile her beauty with blotting.
Cla.
What meane you by that?
Mic.
Why that you Painters, paint lambes, in the lyning of wenches peticots
And we seruingmen put hornes to them, to make them become sheepe.
Cla.
Such another word wil cost you a cuffe or a knock
Mic.
What with a dagger made of a pensell?
Faith tis too weake,
And therefore thou to weak to winne susan.
Cla.
Would susans loue lay vppon this stroke.
Then he breakes Michaels head.
Here enters Mosby Greene & Ales.
Ales.
Ile lay my lyfe, this is for susans loue,
Stayd you behinde your M. to this end?
Haue you no other time to brable in
But now when serious matters are in hand?
Say Clarke, hast thou done the thing thou promised?
Cla.
I heare it is, the very touch is death.
Ales.
Then this I hope, if all the rest do faile,
Wil catch M. Arden,
And make him wise in death, that liued a foole.
