JOHN. Where lie your devils, that tell all your news?
Would you would trouble them for half an hour,
To know what is become of traitor Gloster,
That in my clothes broke prison in the Fleet?
SKINK. No, it was Skink.
JOHN. Come, old fool, ye dote.
SKINK. But hear me.
FAU. Hear him, Prince.
JOHN. 'Swounds, who hears you?
I'll make your lady graft ye for this work.— [Aside.]
—But to your tale, sir.
SKINK. Know, thrice-honoured Prince,
That Skink did cosen Redcap of his clothes,
Gloster did cosen Skink, and so escap'd.
JOHN. Well done, Fauconbridge!
FAU. My lord, he tells you true.
JOHN. You find it on her lips: but, forward, sir.