WROTHAM. Ah, sirra, dost thou not know that a good fellow parson may have a chapel of ease, where his parish Church is far off?
HARPOOLE.
You whoreson stoned Vicar!
WROTHAM.
You old stale ruffin! you lion of Cotswold!
HARPOOLE.
Swounds, Vicar, I’ll geld you!
[Flies upon him.]
CONSTABLE.
Keep the King’s peace!
DOLL.
Murder! murder! murder!
ALE MAN. Hold! as you are men, hold! for God’s sake be quiet! Put up your weapons; you draw not in my house.
HARPOOLE.
You whoreson bawdy priest!
WROTHAM.
You old mutton monger!