_Short._ I'le be hang'd first, unless I heard him Christned, but I
can tell what foolish people call him.

_Isab._ What?

_Short._ _Francisco_.

_Isab._ Where lies this learning, Sir?

_Short._ In _Pauls_ Church yard forsooth.

_Isab._ I mean the Gentleman, fool.

_Short._ O that fool, he lies in loose sheets every where, that's
no where.

_Luce._ You have glean'd since you came to _London_: in the
Country, _Shorthose_, you were an arrant fool, a dull cold
coxcombe, here every Tavern teaches you, the pint pot has so belaboured
you with wit, your brave acquaintance that gives you Ale, so fortified
your mazard, that now there's no talking to you.

_Isab._ 'Is much improved, a fellow, a fine discourser.

_Short._ I hope so, I have not waited at the tail of wit so long to
be an Ass.

_Luce._ But say now, _Shorthose_, my Lady should remove into
the Country.