O _Hemskirk_, fye.
_Van_. Come, do not mind 'em, drink, he is no _Wolfort_,
Captain, I advise you.
_Hem_. Alas, my pretty man,
I think't be angry, by its look: Come hither,
Turn this way, a little: if it were the blood
Of _Charlemaine_, as't may (for ought I know)
Be some good Botchers issue, here in _Bruges_.
_Gos_. How?
_Hem_. Nay: I'me not certain of that; of this I am,
If it once buy, and sell, its Gentry is gone.
_Gos_. Ha, ha.
_Hem._ You are angry, though ye laugh.
_Gos._ No, now 'tis pity
Of your poor argument. Do not you, the Lords
Of Land (if you be any) sell the grass,
The Corn, the Straw, the Milk, the Cheese?
_Van._ And Butter:
Remember Butter; do not leave out Butter.
_Gos._ The Beefs and Muttons that your grounds are stor'd with?
Swine, with the very mast, beside the Woods?
_Hem._ No, for those sordid uses we have Tenants,
Or else our Bailiffs.
_Gos._ Have not we, Sir, Chap-men,
And Factors, then to answer these? your honour
Fetch'd from the Heralds _ABC_, and said over
With your Court faces, once an hour, shall never
Make me mistake my self.
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