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?