Divers as nice,
Like this odd vice,
Are word-makers daily.
Others in courtesy,
Whenever they meet ye,
With new fashions greet ye:
Changing each congee,
Sometime beneath knee,
With, "Good sir, pardon me,"
And much more foolery,
Paltry and foppery,
Dissembling knavery:
Hands sometime kissing,
But honesty missing.
God give no blessing
To such base counterfeiting.
LIT. JOHN. Stop, Master Skelton! whither will you run?
FRIAR. God's pity! Sir John Eltham, Little John,
I had forgot myself. But to our play.
Come, goodman Fashions, let us go our way,
Unto this hanging business. Would, for me,
Some rescue or reprieve might set them free.
[_Exeunt_ FRIAR, RALPH.
ROB. H. Heard'st thou not, Little John, the friar's speech,
Wishing for rescue or a quick reprieve?
LIT. JOHN. He seems like a good fellow, my good lord.
ROB. H. He's a good fellow, John, upon my word.
Lend me thy horn, and get thee in to Much,
And when I blow this horn, come both, and help me.
LIT. JOHN. Take heed, my lord: that villain Warman knows you,
And ten to one he hath a writ against you.
ROB. H.
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