_Bo_. Hold up; so, sir, now away. Oh Mistris, your scantling, most
sweete mistriss, most derydent starre.
_Acut_. Then most rydent starre, faire fall ye.
_Grac_. Nay tis the Moone her self, for there's her man and her Dogge
before.
_Bosse_. I, sir, but the man is not in the moone, and my bush is before
me, _ergo_, not at my backe, _et ergo_, not moone sir.
_Gent_. What's your will sir?
_Acut_. That you would leave us.
_Boss_. Leave you! zounds, sir! we scorne their companies, come they are
still, doe not open to them, we have no Conies to catch.
[_Exeunt[228] Getica and Boss, with the dog_.
_Acut_. Away, keepe no distance, even both together,
for wit ye may be Coacht together.
What sleeke-browde Saint can see this Idiotisme,
The shape and workmanship of omnipotency
To be so blinde with drugs of beastlinesse,
That will not bend the browe and bite the lippe,
Trouble his quiet soule with venome spleene
And feare least the all over-seeer
Can without vengeance see these ignomies?
_Grac_. Why, therfore are they belooved like Sargeants
and entertained like Beggers;
Think'st thou but any honorable Gate,
But will be shut against these Butterflies?
_Acut_.
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