_Goos_. No it is too farre to goe to night, weele be up betimes ith
morning, and not goe to bedd at all.

_Foul_. Why its but ten miles, and a fine cleere night, sir _Gyles_.

_Goos_. But ten miles? what do ye talke, Captaine?

_Rud_. Why? doost thinke its any more?

_Goos_. I, Ile lay ten pounds its more than ten miles, or twelve eyther.

_Rud_. What, to _Barnet_.

_Goos_. I, to _Barnet_.

_Rud_. Slydd, Ile lay a hundred pound with thee, if thou wilt.

_Goos_. Ile lay five hundred, to a hundred. Slight I will not be
outborne with a wager, in that I know: I am sure it was foure yeeres
agon ten miles thether, and I hope tis more now. Slydd doe not miles
grow thinke you, as well as other _Animals_?

_Ia_. O wise Knight!

_Goos_. I never innd in the Towne but once, and then they lodged me in a
Chamber so full of these Ridiculous Fleas, that I was fain to lie
standing all night, and yet I made my man rise, and put out the Candle
too, because they should not see to bite me.

_Foul_. A pretty project.