R. Roister. On, sirs, keep your 'ray.
M. Merry. On forth, while this gear is hot.
R. Roister. Soft, the Arms of Calais, I have one thing forgot.
M. Merry. What lack we now?
R. Roister. Retire, or else we be all slain.
M. Merry. Back, for the pash of God! back, sirs, back again!
What is the great matter?
R. Roister. This hasty forth-going
Had almost brought us all to utter undoing;
It made me forget a thing most necessary.