Enter Host and Young Foster.
Host. I think he's here, sir.
[They draw their swords and fight. Young Foster assists his uncle and the host, and the cheats are beaten. Whilst they are fighting, the bowlers enter and steal away their cloaks.
Rob. I am sure he's now, sir.
Hugh. Hold! hold! an' you be gentlemen, hold!
Rob. Get you gone, varlets, or there's hold to be taken!
Host. Nay, sweet sir, no bloodshed in my house; I am lord of misrule; pray you, put up, sir.
Omnes. 'Sfoot! mine host, where are our cloaks?
Host. Why, this is quarrelling: make after in time: some of your own crew, to try the weight, has lifted them: look out, I say.
Jack. There will ever be thieves in a dicing house till thou be'st hanged, I'll warrant thee. [Exit.