Miles. Not far from Coppersmith's Hall.
P. Edw. What, dost thou mock me?
Miles. Not I, sir, but what would you at Brazen-nose?
Erms. Marry, we would speak with Friar Bacon.
Miles. Whose men be you?
Erms. Marry, scholar, here's our master.
Ralph. Sirrah, I am the master of these good fellows; mayst thou not know me to be a lord by my reparrel?
Miles. Then here's good game for the hawk; for here's the master-fool, and a covey of coxcombs: one wise man, I think, would spring you all.
P. Edw. Gog's wounds! Warren, kill him.
War. Why, Ned, I think the devil be in my sheath; I cannot get out my dagger.