PLOD-ALL. Here's this good fellow too, Master Churms, I must e'en put him and his father over into your hands; they'll pay me no rent.
WILL CRICKET. This good fellow, quotha? I scorn that base, broking, brabbling, brawling, bastardly, bottle-nosed, beetle-browed, bean-bellied name. Why, Robin Goodfellow is this same cogging, pettifogging, crackropes, calf-skin companion. Put me and my father over to him? Old Silver-top, and you had not put me before my father, I would ha'—
PLOD-ALL.
What wouldst ha' done?
WILL CRICKET.
I would have had a snatch at you, that I would.
CHURMS.
What, art a dog?
WILL CRICKET. No; if I had been a dog, I would ha' snapped off your nose ere this, and so I should have cosened the devil of a maribone.
GRIPE. Come, come: let me end this controversy. Prythee, go thy ways in, and bid the boy bring in a cup of sack here for my friends.
WILL CRICKET.
Would you have a sack, sir?
GRIPE.
Away, fool: a cup of sack to drink.
WILL CRICKET. O, I had thought you would have had a sack to have put this law-cracking cogfoist in, instead of a pair of stocks.