Priest, she shall not.

DOLL.
I'll come anon, sweet love.

WROTHAM.
Hand off, old fornicator.

HARPOOLE.
Vicar, I'll sit here in spite of thee. Is this fit stuff for a priest to
carry up and down with him?


WROTHAM.
Ah, sirra, dost thou not know that a good fellow parson may
have a chapel of ease, where his parish Church is far off?

HARPOOLE.
You whoreson stoned Vicar!

WROTHAM.
You old stale ruffin! you lion of Cotswold!

HARPOOLE.
Swounds, Vicar, I'll geld you!

[Flies upon him.]

CONSTABLE.
Keep the King's peace!