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Nico.
And are you there old Pas? in troth I ever thought,
Among us all we should find out some thing of nought.

Pas.
And I am here the same, so mote I thrive and thee,
Despairde in all this flocke to find a knave, but thee.

Nico.
Ah now I see, why thou art in thy selfe so blind:
Thy gray-hood hides the thing, that thou despairst to find.

Pas.
My gray-hood is mine owne, all be it be but gray,
Not like the scrippe thou stol'ste, while Dorcas sleeping lay.

Nico.
Mine was the scrippe: but thou, that seeming raid with love,
Didst snatch from Cosmas hand her greeny wroughtē glove.

Pas.
Ah foole; so Courtiers do. But who did lively skippe,
When for a treene-dish stolne, thy father did thee whippe?

Nico.
In deed the witch thy dam her crouch from shoulder spred,
For pilfring Lalus lambe, with crouch to blesse thy head.

Pas.
My voice the lambe did winne, Menalcas was our judge:
Of singing match was made, whence he with shame did trudge.

Nico.
Couldst thou make Lalus flie? so nightingales avoide,
When with the kawing crowes their musicke is annoide.

Pas.
Nay like to nightingales the other birds give eare:
My pipe and song made him both pipe and song forsweare.

Nico.
I thinke it well: such voice would make one musicke hate:
But if I had bene there, th'adst met another mate.

Pas.
Another sure as is a gander from a goose:
But still when thou dost sing, me thinkes a colt is loose.

Nico.
Well aimed by my hat: for as thou sangst last day;
The neighbours all did crie, alas what asse doth bray?

Pas.
But here is Dicus old; let him then speake the woord,
To whether with best cause the Nymphes faire flowers affoord.