But now I take ye plainly,
Without the help of any perspective,
For that ye cannot alter.

_1 Ush._ What's that?

_Cel._ An Ass, Sir, you bray as like one,
And by my troth, me thinks as ye stand now,
Considering who to kick next, you appear to me
Just with that kind of gravity, and wisdom;
Your place may bear the name of Gentleman,
But if ever any of that butter stick to your bread--

_2 Ush._ You must be modester.

_Cel._ Let him use me nobler,
And wear good Cloaths to do good Offices;
They hang upon a fellow of his vertue,
As though they hung on Gibbets.

_2 Ush._ A perillous wench.

_1 Ush._ Thrust her into a corner, I'le no more on her.

_2 Ush._ You have enough, go pretty Maid, stand close,
And use that little tongue, with a little more temper.

_Cel._ I thank ye, Sir.

_2 Ush._ When the show's past,