DAP. Captain!

FACE. Nor any melancholic under-scribe,
Shall tell the vicar; but a special gentle,
That is the heir to forty marks a year,
Consorts with the small poets of the time,
Is the sole hope of his old grandmother;
That knows the law, and writes you six fair hands,
Is a fine clerk, and has his cyphering perfect.
Will take his oath o' the Greek Testament,
If need be, in his pocket; and can court
His mistress out of Ovid.

DAP. Nay, dear captain --

FACE. Did you not tell me so?

DAP. Yes; but I'd have you
Use master doctor with some more respect.

FACE. Hang him, proud stag, with his broad velvet head! --
But for your sake, I'd choak, ere I would change
An article of breath with such a puckfist:
Come, let's be gone.

[GOING.]

SUB. Pray you let me speak with you.