Cost. Shot! Tummas?
Plume. Come, gentlemen, what's the matter?
Tho. We don't know; the noble serjeant is pleas'd to be in a passion, sir; but——
Kite. They disobey command; they deny their being listed.
Tho. Nay, serjeant, we don't downright deny it, neither; that we dare not do, for fear of being shot; but we humbly conceive, in a civil way, and begging your worship's pardon, that we may go home.
Plume. That's easily known. Have either of you received any of the king's money?
Cost. Not a brass farthing, sir.
Kite. They have each of them received one-and-twenty shillings, and 'tis now in their pockets.
Cost. Wounds! if I have a penny in my pocket but a bent sixpence, I'll be content to be listed and shot into the bargain.
Tho. And I: look ye here, sir.