Miles. Not far from Copper-smithes Hall.
Edward. What, doest thou mocke me?
Miles. Not I, sir: but what would you at Brazennose?
Ermsbie. Marrie, we would speak with Frier Bacon. 40
Miles. Whose men be you?
Ermsbie. Marrie, scholler, heres our maister.
Raphe. Sirha, I am the maister of these good fellowes; mayst thou not know me to be a lord by my reparrell? 44
Miles. Then heeres good game for the hawke; for heers the maister foole and a covie of cocks combs: one wise man, I thinke, would spring you all.
Edward. Gogs wounds! Warren, kill him.
Warren. Why, Ned, I think the devill be in my sheath; I cannot get out my dagger. 50