OLIVER.
Why, man, he would press me.

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.