PHIL. Sirrah, he means the butt'ry bowls of beer.
COOMES. By God, sir, we tickled it.
FRAN. Why, what a swearing keeps this drunken ass?
Canst thou not say but swear at every word?
PHIL. Peace, do not mar his humour, prythee, Frank.
COOMES. Let him alone; he's a springall; he knows not what belongs to an oath.
FRAN. Sirrah, be quiet, or I do protest—
COOMES. Come, come, what do you protest?
FRAN. By heaven, to crack your crown.
COOMES. To crack my crown! I lay ye a crown of that, lay it down, and ye dare; nay, 'sblood, I'll venture a quarter's wages of that. Crack my crown, quotha!
FRAN. Will ye not yet be quiet? will ye urge me?