_Enter_ Ralph, _Mist._ Merry, Michael, Squire, _and_ Dwarf. _Ralph._ What Knight is that, Squire, ask him if he keep The passage bound by love of Lady fair, Or else but prickant. _Hum._ Sir, I am no Knight, But a poor Gentleman, that this same night, Had stoln from me on yonder Green, My lovely Wife, and suffered to be seen Yet extant on my shoulder[s] such a greeting, That whilst I live, I shall think of that meeting. _Wife._ I _Ralph_, he beat him unmercifully, _Ralph_, and thou spar'st him _Ralph_, I would thou wert hang'd. _Cit._ No more, wife, no more. _Ralph._ Where is the Caitiff wretch hath done this deed, Lady, your pardon, that I may proceed Upon the quest of this injurious Knight. And thou fair Squire repute me not the worse, In leaving the great venture of the purse, _Enter_ Jasper _and_ Luce. And the rich Casket till some better leisure. _Hum._ Here comes the Broker hath purloin'd my treasure. _Ralph._ Go, Squire, and tell him I am here, An Errant Knight at Arms, to crave delivery Of that fair Lady to her own Knights arms. If he deny, bid him take choice of ground, And so defie him. _Squire._ From the Knight that bears _The Golden Pestle_, I defie thee Knight, Unless thou make fair restitution Of that bright Lady. _Jasp._ Tell the Knight that sent thee He is an ass, and I will keep the wench, And knock his Head-piece. _Ralph._ [Knight thou] art but dead, If thou recall not thy uncourteous terms. _Wife._ Break's pate _Ralph_, break's pate _Ralph_, soundly. _Jasp._ Come Knight, I am ready for you, now your Pestle. [_Snatches away his Pestle._ Shall try what temper, Sir, your Mortar's of: With that he stood upright in his stirrops, And gave the Knight of the Calve-skin such a knock, That he forsook his horse, and down he fell, And then he leaped upon him, and plucking off his Helmet. _Hum._ Nay, and my noble Knight be down so soon, Though I can scarcely go, I needs must run. [_Exit_ Humphrey _and_ Ralph. _Wife._ Run _Ralph_, run _Ralph_, run for thy life boy, _Jasper_ comes, _Jasper_ comes. _Jasp._ Come _Luce_, we must have other Arms for you, _Humphrey_ and _Golden Pestle_ both adieu. [_Exeunt._ _Wife._ Sure the Devil, God bless us, is in this Springald, why _George_, didst ever see such a fire-drake, I am afraid my boy's miscarried; if he be, though he were Master _Merry-thoughts_ Son a thousand times, if there be any Law in _England_, I'll make some of them smart for't.