ARTHUR.
Away, sirrah, charm your tongue.
[Exit Soldiers.]
OLIVER.
Been you a presser, sir?
ARTHUR.
I am a commander, sir, under the King.
OLIVER. Sfoot, man, and you be ne’er zutch a commander, should a spoke with my vrens before I should agone, so should.
ARTHUR. Content yourself, man, my authority will stretch to press so good a man as you.
OLIVER.
Press me? I deuve ye, press scoundrels, and thy messels:
Press me! chee scorns thee, yfaith: For seest thee, here’s
a worshipful knight knows cham not to be pressed by thee.
[Enter Sir Lancelot, Weathercock, young Flowerdale, old
Flowerdale, Lucy, Frances.]
LANCELOT.
Sir Arthur, welcome to Lewsome, welcome by my troth.
What’s the matter, man? why are you vexed?
OLIVER.
Why, man, he would press me.