FRIAR.
Yea, whoreson, wilt thou scrat and bite?
PARDONER.
Yea, marry, will I, as long as thou dost smite.—
[Enter the Curate.
PARSON (OR CURATE).
Hold your hands, a vengeance on ye both two,
That ever ye came hither to make this a-do!
To pollute my church, a mischief on you light!
I swear to you, by God Almight,
Ye shall both repent, every vein of your heart,
As sore as ye did ever thing, ere ye depart.
FRIAR.
Master Parson, I marvel ye will give licence
To this false knave in this audience,
To publish his ragman-rolls[178] with lies
I desired him, i-wis, more than once or twice
To hold his peace, till that I had done;
But he would hear no more than the man in the moon—