Worcester. Those same noble Scots,
That are your prisoners,—
Hotspur. I’ll keep them all;
By heaven, he shall not have a Scot of them.
No, if a Scot would save his soul, he shall not.
I’ll keep them, by this hand.
Worcester. You start away,
And lend no ear unto my purposes.—
Those prisoners you shall keep.
Hotspur. Nay, I will; that’s flat.—