BRIAN. I'll complain unto the king you spoil his game: 'tis strange that men of your account and calling will offer it. I tell you true, Sir Arthur and Sir Ralph, that none but you have only spoiled my game. SIR ARTH. I charge you stop us not. BRIAN. I charge you both get out of my ground. Is this a time for such as you, men of place and of your gravity, to be abroad a-thieving? 'tis a shame; and afore God, if I had shot at you, I had served you well enough. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ BANKS _the miller, wet on his legs_. BANKS. Foot, here's a dark night indeed: I think I have been in fifteen ditches between this and the forest. Soft, here's Enfield church: I am so wet with climbing over into an orchard for to steal some filberts. Well, here I'll sit in the church-porch, and wait for the rest of my consorts. _Enter_ SEXTON. SEX. Here's a sky as black as Lucifer, God bless us! Here was goodman Theophilus buried: he was the best nut-cracker that ever dwelt in England. Well, 'tis nine o'clock, 'tis time to ring curfew.[302] Lord bless us, what a white thing is that in the church-porch![303] O lord, my legs are too weak for my body, my hair is too stiff for my nightcap, my heart fails; this is the ghost of Theophilus. O Lord, it follows me! I cannot say my prayers, and one would give me a thousand pound. Good spirit! I have bowled and drunk, and followed the hounds with you, a thousand times, though I have not the spirit now to deal with you. O Lord! _Enter_ SIR JOHN. SIR JOHN. Grass and hay! we are all mortal; who's there? SEX. We are grass and hay indeed: I know you to be master parson by your phrase. PRIEST. Sexton! SEX. Ay, sir. PRIEST. For mortality's sake, what's the matter? SEX. O Lord, I am a man of another element; Master Theophilus's ghost is in the church-porch. There was an hundred cats, all fire, dancing even now, and they are clomb up to the top of the steeple; I'll not into the belfry for a world. PRIEST. O goodman Solomon, I have been about a deed of darkness to-night: O Lord! I saw fifteen spirits in the forest like white bulls; if I lie, I am an arrant thief: mortality haunts us--grass and hay! the devil's at our heels, and let's hence to the parsonage. [_Exeunt._ _The_ MILLER _comes out very softly_. MILLER. What noise was that? 'tis the watch; sure, that villanous unlucky rogue Smug is ta'en; upon my life, and then all our knavery comes out! I heard one cry, sure. _Enter host_ BLAGUE.