University of Virginia Library

Scena. 5.

Grymball, Rowke, Rosko.
Grym.
God bores, as sayst, when somewhat handsome ch'am,
I fayth she wyll come off for very shame:

Row.
Yea without doubt for I sweare by saynt Anne:
My selfe loues you, you are so cleane a youngman.

Grim.
Nay, thou woult say so, when my face is fayre washt,

Ros.
Good luck a Gods name, the wodcocke is masht.

Row.
And who Barbes ye Grimball.

Grim.
A dapper knaue, one Rosko.

Ros.
Well letherface, we shall haue you Asse ere you goe.

Row.
I know him not, is he a deaft barber?

Grim.
O, yea, why he is Mistris Lamias powler.
And looke syrra, yen is the lyttell knaue.
How dost Rosko?

Ros.
Whope, my eye sight God saue,
What ould Grimball, welcome, sit you downe heare,
Boye?

Boy.
Anon.

Boy in the house.
Ros.
Bay leaues in warme water, quick, bring cleane geare,

Boy.
Strayght.

Row.
As thou sayd'st Grymball, this is a feate knaue indeede,

Ros.
How say'syr? oyntments for a scab, do you neede?

Row.
Scab, scuruy Iack, ile set you a worke Syr.

Grym.
Nay gogs foote, good nowe, no more of this stur.

Row.
I fayth Barber, I wyll pyck your teeth straight.

Ros.
Nay, to pick my purse, I feare thou dost wayght,

Row.
Yea, gogs hart,

Grym.
Nay, gogs foote,

Ros.
Nowe come Ruffen.

Grim.
Leaue, if you be men,
Heare ye me nowe? be friendes, and by my trothe,
Chill spende a whole quarte of Ale on you bothe.

Ros.
Well, masse Grimball, I lytle thought I wus,
You woulde a brought a knaue, to vie mee thus.

Grim.
Why, knowest him not? why it is lustie Rowke.

Ros.
A strong theefe, I warrant him by his looke.

Row.
Go to Barber, no more, least Copper you catch.

Grim.
What? wilt giue thy nose awaye? beware that match.
For thy see no Copper, vnlest be theare.

Boy brings water.
Boy.
Master, here is delicate water, & cleane geare.

Exit.
Ros.
Well, to quiet my house, and for Grimbals sake,
If it pleaseth you, as friendes, we handes will shake.

Grim.
I, I, do so:

Row.
And for his sake I agree.

Grim.
Well then, that we may drinke, straight wayes wash mee.

Ros.
Good syr, here's water as sweete as a Rose,
Nowe whyles I wash, your eyes harde you must close.

Grim.
Thus?

Ros.
Harder yet:

Grim.
O, thus:

Ros.
Yea marry, so.
Howe syrra, you knowe what you haue to doe:

Rowke cuttes Grimbals purse.
Ros.
Winke harde, Grimball.

Grim.
Yes, yes, I shall.

Row.
Heare's the toothpick, and all.

Exit.
Ros.
Departe then tyll I call?
Uerie well syr, your face, is gayly cleane,
Were your teeth nowe pickt, you maye kisse a queane.

Grim.
Sayst thou mee so? Good nowe dispatch and awaye?
I euen fyssell, vntyll I smouch Dalia.

Ros.
O doo you so? I am right glad you tell,
I else had thought, tad bene your teethe dyd smell.

Grim.
O Lorde, gogs foote, you picke me to the quicke:

Ros.
Quiet your selfe, your teeth are furred thicke.

Grim.
O, oh no more, O God, I spattell blood.

Ros.
I haue done, spyt out, this doth you much good:
Boye?

Boy.
Anon.

Boy within.
Ros.
Bring the drinke in the Porringer,
To gargalis his teeth.

Boy.
It is here syr.

Exit.
Ros.
Wash your teeth with this, good maister Grimball.

Grim.
I am poysoned, ah, it is bytter gall:

Ros.
Eate these Comfyts, to sweeten your mouth with all.

Grim.
Yea mary syr, these are gay sugred geare.

Ros.
Their sweetnesse straight, wyll make you stinke I feare:

Grim.
UUell nowe, what must I paye, that chy were gone?

Ros.
UUhat you wyll.

Grim.
Sayest me so? O cham vndone.

Ros.
Howe nowe Grimball?

Grim:
O Leard, my Purse is cutte.

Ros.
UUhen? where?

Grim.
Nowe, here.

Ros.
Boye, let the doore be shutte,
If it be here, we wyll straight wayes see,
Where's he, that came with you?

Grim.
I can not tell.

Ros.
What is hee?

Grim.
I knowe not.

Ros.
Where doth he dwell?

Grim.
O Leard, I ken not I.

Ros.
You haue done well.
This knaue, your pence, in his pocket hath purst:
Let's seeke him out.

Grim.
Nay harke, I must neades first:
O Learde, Learde, cham sicke, my belly akes, too, too:

Ros.
Thou lookst yll: well, yle tell thee what to doo.
Since thou art so sicke, straight wayes, get thee home,
To finde this Iacke, my selfe abroade wyll rome.
The rather, for that he playde the knaue with mee.

Gri.
Cham sicke in deede, and therfore ych thanke thee:

Ros.
I see sometime, the blinde man hits a Crowe,
He maye thanke me, that he is plagued soe:

Gri.
Well, well, Dalia, the Loue ych bare to thee,
Hath made me sicke, and pickt my purse from mee.

Exit.
Ros.
A, is he gone? a foole company him,
In good soothe Sir, this match fadged trim:
Well, I wyll trudge, to finde my fellewe Rowke,
To share the price, that my deuise hath tooke.

Exit.