M. Merry. How then?
R. Roister. Rather than to be slain, I will flee.
C. Custance. To it again, my knightesses! down with them all!
R. Roister. Away, away, away! she will else kill us all.
M. Merry. Nay, stick to it, like an hardy man and a tall.
R. Roister. O bones, thou hittest me! Away, or else die we shall.
M. Merry. Away, for the pash of our sweet Lord Jesus Christ!
C. Custance. Away, lout and lubber, or I shall be thy priest!
[Exeant Om.[167]
So this field is ours; we have driven them all away.