I'll pheeze you, in faith.

HOSTESS.
A pair of stocks, you rogue!

SLY.
Y'are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues; look in the
chronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas
pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa!

HOSTESS.
You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

SLY.
No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed
and warm thee.

HOSTESS.
I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough.

[Exit.]

SLY.
Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law.
I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly.

[Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep.]

[Horns winded. Enter a LORD from hunting, with Huntsmen and
Servants.]