J. R. May it please your worship, here I am, according to order, awaiting your good pleasure.

J. J. Thou art made to weight, John, more than order. How much dost thou tip the scales to?

J. R. Only twelve score pounds, my lord, when I be in wrestling trim. And sure I must have lost weight here, fretting so long in London.

J. J. Ha, much fret there is in thee! Has his Majesty seen thee?

J. R. Yes, my lord, twice, or even thrice, and he made some jest concerning me.

J. J. A very poor one, I doubt not. Now, is there in thy neighborhood at Exmoor a certain nest of robbers, miscreants, and outlaws, whom all men fear to handle?

J. R. Yes, my lord; at least I believe some of them be robbers; and all of them are outlaws.

J. J. And what is your high-sheriff about that he doth not hang them all? Or send them up for me to hang, without more to do about it?