_Hig._ This is tyrant-like indeed: But what would _Ginks_
Or _Clause_ be here, if either of them should raign?
_Clau._ Best ask an Ass, if he were made a Camel,
What he would be; or a dog, and he were a Lyon.
_Ginks._ I care not what you are, Sirs, I shall be
A Beggar still I am sure, I find my self there.
_Enter_ Goswin.
_Snap._ O here a Judge comes.
_Hig._ Cry, a Judge, a Judge.
_Gos._ What ail you Sirs? what means this outcry?
_Hig._ Master,
A sort of poor souls met: Gods fools, good Master,
Have had some little variance amongst our selves
Who should be honestest of us, and which lives
Uprightest in his calling: Now, 'cause we thought
We ne're should 'gree on't our selves, because
Indeed 'tis hard to say: we all dissolv'd, to put it
To him that should come next, and that's your Master-ship,
Who, I hope, will 'termine it as your mind serves you,
Right, and no otherwise we ask it: which?
Which does your worship think is he? sweet Master
Look over us all, and tell us; we are seven of us,
Like to the seven wise Masters, or the Planets.
_Gos._ I should judge this the man with the grave beard,
And if he be not--
_Clau.
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