Omnes. We do.
Throat. Certify them, Dash.
W. Small. What! am I free?
Throat. You are: serjeants, I discharge you.
There's your fees.
Beard. Not so; I must have money.
Throat. I'll pass my word.
Beard. Foutre! words are wind:
I say, I must have money.
Throat. How much, sir?
Beard. Three pounds in hand, and all the rest to-morrow.
Throat. There's your sum. Now, officers, be gone,
Each take his way; I must to Saint John's Street,
And see my lady-mother: she's now in town,
And we to her shall straight present our duties.