SMUG. Fire, s'blood, there's no fire in England like your Trinidado sack. Is any man here humorous? We stole the venison, and we'll justify it: say you now!
HOST.
In good sooth, Smug, there's more sack on the fire, Smug.
SMUG. I do not take any exceptions against your sack; but it you'll lend me a pick staff, I'll cudgle them all hence, by this hand.
HOST.
I say thou shalt in to the Celler.
SMUG. S'foot, mine Host, shalls not grapple? Pray, pray you; I could fight now for all the world like a Cockatrices ege; shals not serve the Duke of Norfolk?
[Exit.]
HOST.
In, skipper, in!
SIR ARTHUR.
Sirra, hath young Mountchensey married your sister?
HARRY CLARE. Tis Certain, Sir; here's the priest that coupled them, the parties joined, and the honest witness that cried Amen.
MOUNTCHENSEY. Sir Arthur Clare, my new created Father, I beseech you, hear me.