Pike. Well: he's welcome.
Here's my old trusty frend: are there no more?
One! what, but one? why, I shall make no play,
No sport before my princely Judges with one.
More sackes to the Mill! come, another! what, no more?
Mac. How many wouldst thou have?
Pike. Any number under six.
All. Ha, ha, sure he's mad!
Mac. Dar'st coape with Three?
Pike. Where are they? let 'em shew their faces: so; welcome!
Mac. How dost thou like these chickens?
Pike. When I have drest them With sorrell sopps Ile tell you.
Lady. Now guard him heaven!
[Drums. They fight, one is killd, the other 2 disarmed.