SHO. My bones are sore; I prythee, Joan,
Let's quickly from this place be gone.
Nay, come away, I love thee so,
Without thee I will never go.
ROB. What, priest, still at your lechery?
[ROBIN beats the priest.
I'll thrash you for your knavery.
If any ask who beat thee so,
Tell them 'twas Robin Goodfellow.
[SHORTHOSE runneth away.
GRIM. O miller, art thou gone? I am glad of it. I smelt my own infirmity every stroke I struck at him. Now, Joan, I dare boldly swear thou art my own; for I have won thee in the plain field. Now Master Parson shall even strike it up; two or three words of his mouth will make her gammer Grim all the days of her life after.
ROB. Here is two well-favoured slaves!
Grim and I may curse all good faces,
And not hurt our own.
JOAN. What, my love, how dost thou?
GRIM. Even as a conqueror may do. Jug, for thy sake I have made the miller a poor cripple all the days of his life, good for nothing else but to be carried into the 'spital-house.
ROB. Ay, there is one lie, for thou didst never hurt him. [Aside.]
JOAN. I am glad thou 'scapedst, my love, and wast not hurt.
GRIM. Who? I hurt? Joan, thou knowest me not yet: thou mayest do better hereafter. I gave him five mortal wounds the first five strokes I made at him.
ROB. There are five lies clapt into one, for brevity's sake. [Aside.]