LANCELOT.
O fie, Sir Arthur, press him? he is a man of reckoning.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, that he is, Sir Arthur, he hath the nobles,
The golden ruddocks he.
ARTHUR.
The fitter for the wars: and were he not
In favour with your worships, he should see,
That I have power to press so good as he.
OLIVER.
Chill stand to the trial, so chill.
FLOWERDALE. Aye, marry, shall he, press-cloth and karsie, white pot and drowsen broth: tut, tut, he cannot.
OLIVER. Well, sir, tho you see vlouten cloth and karsie, chee a zeen zutch a karsie coat wear out the town sick a zilken jacket, as thick a one you wear.
FLOWERDALE.
Well said, vlitan vlattan.
OLIVER. Aye, and well said, cocknell, and bo-bell too: what, doest think cham a veard of thy zilken coat? nefer vere thee.
LANCELOT.
Nay, come, no more, be all lovers and friends.
WEATHERCOCK.
Aye, tis best so, good master Oliver.