SHRIEVE.
A ruffian, my lord, that hath set half the city in an uproar.
FAULKNER.
My lord—
SHRIEVE. There was a fray in Paternoster-row, and because they would not be parted, the street was choked up with carts.
FAULKNER.
My noble lord, Paniar Allies throat was open.
MORE.
Sirrah, hold your peace.
FAULKNER. I’ll prove the street was not choked, but is as well as ever it was since it was a street.
SHRIEVE.
This fellow was a principal broacher of the broil.
FAULKNER. ’Sblood, I broached none; it was broached and half run out, before I had a lick at it.
SHRIEVE.
And would be brought before no justice but your honor.
FAULKNER.
I am hailed, my noble lord.