P. Ser. Wilt please you to taste a cup of September beer, gentlemen?
Light. Pray, begin: we'll pledge you, sir.
P. Ser. It's out, sir.
Light. Then my hand is in, sir. [Lightfoot cuffs him.] Why goodman Hobby-horse, if we out of our gentility offered you to begin, must you out of your rascality needs take it?
Had. Why, how now, sirs, what's the matter?
P. Ser. The gentleman here falls out with me upon nothing in the world but mere courtesy.
Had. By this light, but he shall not; why, cousin Lightfoot!
P. Ser. Is his name Lightfoot? a plague on him, he has a heavy hand.
Enter Young Lord Wealthy.
Y. Lord W. Peace be here; for I came late enough from a madman.