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SLY. 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.

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