Ermsbie. Nor I mine: swones, Ned, I think I am bewitcht.
Miles. A companie of scabbes! the proudest of you all drawe your weapon if he can.—
See how boldly I speake, now my maister is by. [Aside.]
Edward. I strive in vaine; but if my sword be shut 55
And conjur'd fast by magicke in my sheath,
Villaine, heere is my fist.
Strikes him a box on the eare.
Miles. Oh, I beseech you conjure his hands too, that he may not lift his armes to his head, for he is light fingered!
Raphe. Ned, strike him; Ile warrant thee by mine honour. 60
Bacon. What meanes the English prince to wrong my man?