Host of the Garter

Host. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaule, French & Welch,
Soule-Curer, and Body-Curer

Cai. I, dat is very good, excellant

Host. Peace, I say: heare mine Host of the Garter,
Am I politicke? Am I subtle? Am I a Machiuell?
Shall I loose my Doctor? No, hee giues me the Potions
and the Motions. Shall I loose my Parson? my Priest?
my Sir Hugh? No, he giues me the Prouerbes, and the
No-verbes. Giue me thy hand (Celestiall) so: Boyes of
Art, I haue deceiu'd you both: I haue directed you to
wrong places: your hearts are mighty, your skinnes are
whole, and let burn'd Sacke be the issue: Come, lay their
swords to pawne: Follow me, Lad of peace, follow, follow,
follow

Shal. Trust me, a mad Host: follow Gentlemen, follow

Slen. O sweet Anne Page

Cai. Ha' do I perceiue dat? Haue you make-a-de-sot
of vs, ha, ha?
Eua. This is well, he has made vs his vlowting-stog:
I desire you that we may be friends: and let vs knog our
praines together to be reuenge on this same scall
scuruy-cogging-companion
the Host of the Garter