Cre. 'Snigs, I would fain now hear some fighting news.
Enter Caster.
Slicer. There's one will furnish you, I warrant you.
Cas. Pox! plague! hell! death! damn'd luck! This 'tis!
The devil take all fortunes! Never man
Came off so: quite and clean defunct, by heaven!
Not a piece left.
Cre. What, all your ordnance lost?
Cas. But one to bear and lose it! All the world
Was, sure, against me.
Cre. 'Snigs, how many fell?
Cas. He threw twice twelve.
Cre. By'r Lady, a shrewd many!