What, Sir Robert of Windsor, how now?

SIR ROBERT.
Yfaith, my Lord, a prisoner: but what ails your arm?

LUBECK.
Hurt the last night by mischance.

SIR ROBERT.
What, not in the mask at the Court gate?

LUBECK.
Yes, trust me, there.

SIR ROBERT.
Why then, my Lord, I thank you for my nights lodging.

LUBECK.
And I you for my hurt, if it were so. Keeper, away, I
discharge you of your prisoner.

[Exit the Keeper.]

SIR ROBERT.
Lord Marques, you offered me disgrace to shoulder me.

LUBECK.
Sir, I knew you not, and therefore you must pardon me, and
the rather it might be alleged to me of mere simplicity to