The True and Honorable History of the Life of Sir John Oldcastle, the Good Lord Cobham.
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rogue, deliver, or I'll not leave you so much as an Irish
hair above your shoulders, you whoreson Irish dog.
Sirra, untruss presently; come, off and dispatch, or by
this cross I'll fetch your head off as clean as a bark.

IRISHMAN.
Wee's me, saint Patrick! Ise kill me mester for chain
and his ring, and nows be rob of all: mee's undoo.

[Priest robs him.]

SIR JOHN.
Avant, you rascal! Go, sirra, be walking. Come, Doll,
the devil laughs, when one thief robs another: come,
mad wench, we'll to saint Albans, and revel in our
bower; hey, my brave girl.

DOLL.
O thou art old sir John when all's done, yfaith.

[Exeunt.]

ACT V. SCENE III. St. Albans. The entrance of a
carrier's inn.

[Enter the host of the Bell with the Irish man.]

IRISHMAN.
Be me tro, mester, is pore Irisman, is want ludging, is
have no money, is starve and cold: good mester, give
her some meat; is famise and tie.

HOST.
Yfaith, my fellow, I have no lodging, but what I keep
for my guess, that I may not disappoint: as for meat
thou shalt have such as there is, & if thou wilt lie in
the barn, there's fair straw, and room enough.

IRISHMAN.
Is thank my mester hartily, de straw is good bed for me.

HOST.
Ho, Robin!

ROBIN.
Who calls?

HOST.
Shew this poor Irishman into the barn; go, sirra.

[Exeunt.]

[Enter carrier and Kate.]

CLUB.
Ho, who's within here? who looks to the horses?
God's hat! here's fine work: the hens in the manger,
and the hogs in the litter. A bots found you all; here's
a house well looked to, yvaith.

KATE.
Mas, goffe Club, I'se very cawd.

CLUB.
Get in, Kate, get in to fire and warm thee. Ho! John
Hostler.

[Enter Hostler.]

HOSTLER.
What, gaffer Club? welcome to saint Albans. How does
all our friends in Lancashire?

CLUB.
Well, God have mercy, John; how does Tom; where's he?

HOSTLER.
O, Tom is gone from hence; he's at the three horse-loves
at Stony-stratford. How does old Dick Dunne?

CLUB.
God's hat, old Dunne has been moyerd in a slough in
Brickhill-lane, a plague found it; yonder is such
abomination weather as never was seen.