SIR JOHN. Yfaith, but one. Dost wonder how I come by gold? I wonder rather how poor soldiers should have gold; for I’ll tell thee, good fellow: we have every day tithes, offerings, christenings, weddings, burials; and you poor snakes come seldom to a booty. I’ll speak a proud word: I have but one parsonage, Wrotham; tis better than the Bishopric of Rochester. There’s ne’er a hill, heath, nor down in all Kent, but tis in my parish: Barham down, Chobham down, Gad’s Hill, Wrotham hill, Black heath, Cock’s heath, Birchen wood, all pay me tithe. Gold, quoth a? ye pass not for that.
SUFFOLK.
Harry, ye are out; now, parson, shake the dice.
SIR JOHN. Set, set; I’ll cover ye at all. A plague on’t, I am out: the devil, and dice, and a wench, who will trust them?
SUFFOLK.
Sayest thou so, priest? Set fair; at all for once.
KING.
Out, sir; pay all.
SIR JOHN.
Sblood, pay me angel gold.
I’ll none of your cracked French crowns nor pistolets.
Pay me fair angel gold, as I pay you.
KING.
No cracked French crowns? I hope to see more cracked
French crowns ere long.
SIR JOHN. Thou meanest of French men’s crowns, when the King is in France.
HUNTINGTON.
Set round, at all.
SIR JOHN.
Pay all: this is some luck.