There’s a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee. Peace! Hear the crier! What the devil art thou? One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An he may catch your hide and you alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valor plucks dead lions by the beard. I’ll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right. Sirrah, look to ’t. I’ faith, I will, i’ faith! O, well did he become that lion’s robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides’ shoes upon an ass.— But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath? Louis, determine what we shall do straight. Women and fools, break off your confer
