Of horse nor mare nor asse, & yet the beast
An usuall thynge for burthen.

_Bus_. Suche is myne,
A Mule, that is the bastard breede betwyxte
An asse & mare, & onlye fytt for labor.

_Char_. But, sir, you must be neyther cloathed nor naked.

_Bus_. Nor am I, myghtie Sir: thys pore thynne nett
Nor leaves me nakt nor yet dothe cover me.

_Char_. You prettylie orereache me; but you must
Bringe in your hand the faythfullst frend you challenge.

_Bus_. Thys is he, my faythfull trustye spanyell,
The verye typpe & truthe of true affectyon.

_Char_. But with hym must be joynd your greatest enemye.

_Bus_. They are not farre assunder: a curst wife
Is evermore mans worst aflyctyon,
And shee that outgoes myne in bytternes
May fryght the whole worlde.

_Char_. Come, y'are ingenyous,
And I confes th'ast conquerd, thoughe I knowe
Thy father houlds as much unworthynes
As may excusse tyrranye in a prynce:
Yet for thys goodnes & thys industrye,