angry women of Abington.
Fra. Well sir, what say you to Bowlers?
Coo. Why I say they cannot be saued.
Fra. Your reason sir?
Coo. Because they throw away their soules at euery marke
Fra. Their soules, how meane ye?
Phi. Sirra he meanes the soule of our bowle.
Fra. Lord how his wit holdes bias like a bowle.
Coo. Well, which is the Bias?
Fra. This next to you.
Coo. Nay turne it this way, then the bowle goes true.
Boy. Rub, rub.
Coo. Why rub?
Boy. Why you ouercast the marke and misse the way.
Coo. Nay boy Ivse to take the fairest of my play.
Phi. Dicke Coomes me thinkes thou art very pleasant.
When gotst thou this mirrie humour?
When gotst thou this mirrie humour?
Coo. In your fathers Seller, the merriest place in th'house.
Phi. Then you haue beene carowsing hard,
Coo. Yes faith, t'is our custome when your fathers men &
we meete.
we meete.
Phi. Thou art very welcome thether Dicke.
Coo. By God I thanke ye sir, I thank ye sir, by God I haue
a quart of Wine for ye sir in any place of the world, there
shal not a seruingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then
I will do, if you haue any quarrell in hand, you shall haue
the maidenhead of my new sword: I paide a quarters wages
for't by Iesus.
a quart of Wine for ye sir in any place of the world, there
shal not a seruingman in Barkeshire fight better for ye then
I will do, if you haue any quarrell in hand, you shall haue
the maidenhead of my new sword: I paide a quarters wages
for't by Iesus.
Phi. Oh this meate failer Dicke,
How well t'as made apparell of his wit,
And brought it into fashion of an honor,
Prethe Dicke Coomes but tell me how thou doost?
How well t'as made apparell of his wit,
And brought it into fashion of an honor,
Prethe Dicke Coomes but tell me how thou doost?
Coo. Faith sir like a poore man at seruice.
Phi. Or seruing man.
Coo. Indeede so called by the vulgar.
Phi. Why where the deuill hadst thou that word?
Coo. O sir, you haue the most eloquenst ale in all the
world, our blunt soyle affoordes none such,
world, our blunt soyle affoordes none such,
Fra. Phillip leaue talking with this drunken foole,
Say sirra where's my father?
Say sirra where's my father?
Coo. Marrie I thanke ye for my verle good cheere, O Lord
it
