HICKSCORNER.
Beshrew your heart, and put up your blade,
Sheathe your whittle, or by Jis,[135] that was never born,
I will rap you on the costard with my horn;
What, will ye play all the knave?
IMAGINATION.
By Cock's heart, and thou a buffet shalt have.
FREEWILL.
Lo, sirs, here is a fair company, God us save;
For if any of us three be mayor of London,
I-wis, i-wis, I will ride to Rome on my thumb:
Alas! ah, see; is not this a great feres?
I would they were in a mill-pool above the ears;
And then I durst warrant, they would depart anon.