Hew. Or if you were not, the more the pity, for little England, I say. [In a heat.
Fleet. Verily, my Lords, Brethren should not fall out, it is a Scandal to the good Cause, and maketh the wicked rejoice.
War. Wons, and theys garr the loosey Proverb on’t te, when loons gang together by th’ luggs, gued men get their ene.
All. He, he, he.
Due. He calls you Knaves by Craft, my Lords.
War. Bread a gued, take’t among ye, Gentlemen, I’s ment weel.
Fleet. I profess, my Lord Wariston, you make my Hair stand an end to hear how you swear.
War. Wons, my Loord, I’s swear as little as your Lordship, only I’s swear out, and ye swallow aud.
Due. There’s a Bone for you to pick, my Lord.
All. He, he, he.