Jer. Why, man, at Porter's gate, the way lies right: hark! the clock strikes at Enfield: what's the hour?
Y. Clare. Ten, the bell says.
Jer. A lie's in's throat, it was but eight when we set out of Cheston; Sir John and his sexton are at their ale to-night, the clock runs at random.
Y. Clare. Nay, as sure as thou liv'st, the villanous vicar is abroad in the chase this dark night: the stone priest steals more venison than half the country.
Jer. Millicent, now dost thou?
Mil. Sir, very well.
I would to God we were at Brian's lodge.
Y. Clare. We shall anon; nouns! hark!
What means this noise?
Jer. Stay, I hear horsemen.
Y. Clare. I hear footmen too.
Jer. Nay, then I have it: we have been discovered,
And we are followed by our fathers' men.