_Tap._ Master, the reckoning is not paid. _Ralph._ Right courteous Knight, who for the orders' sake Which thou hast ta'en, hang'st out the holy Bell, As I this flaming pestle bear about, We render thanks to your puissant self, Your beauteous lady, and your gentle squires, For thus refreshing of our wearied limbs, Stiffened with hard achievements in wild desert. _Tap._ Sir, there is twelve shillings to pay. _Ralph._ Thou merry squire Tapstero, thanks to thee For comforting our souls with double jug, And if adventurous fortune prick thee forth, Thou jovial squire, to follow feats of arms, Take heed thou tender ev'ry lady's cause, Ev'ry true knight, and ev'ry damsel fair, But spill the blood of treacherous Saracens, And false enchanters, that with magic spells Have done to death full many a noble knight. _Host._ Thou valiant Knight of the Burning Pestle, give ear to me: there is twelve shillings to pay, and as I am a true knight, I will not bate a penny. _Wife._ George, I prithee tell me, must Ralph pay twelve shillings now? _Cit._ No, Nell, no, nothing; but the old knight is merry with Ralph. _Wife._ O, is't nothing else? Ralph will be as merry as he. _Ralph._ Sir Knight, this mirth of yours becomes you well, But to requite this liberal courtesy, If any of your squires will follow arms, He shall receive from my heroic hand A knighthood, by the virtue of this pestle. _Host._ Fair knight, I thank you for your noble offer; therefore, gentle knight, twelve shillings you must pay, or I must cap you. _Wife._ Look, George, did not I tell thee as much? The knight of the Bell is in earnest. Ralph shall not be beholding to him; give him his money, George, and let him go snick-up. _Cit._ Cap Ralph? No; hold your hand, Sir Knight of the Bell, there's your money. Have you anything to say to Ralph now? Cap Ralph? _Wife._ I would you should know it, Ralph has friends that will not suffer him to be capt for ten times so much, and ten times to the end of that. Now take thy course, Ralph. _Mist. Mer._ Come, Michael, thou and I will go home to thy father, he hath enough left to keep us a day or two, and we'll set fellows abroad to cry our purse and casket. Shall we, Michael? _Mich._ Ay, I pray mother, in truth my feet are full of chilblains with travelling. _Wife._ Faith and those chilblains are a foul trouble. Mistress Merry-thought, when your youth comes home let him rub all the soles of his feet and his heels and his ankles with a mouse-skin; or if none of you can catch a mouse, when he goes to bed let him roll his feet in the warm embers, and I warrant you he shall be well, and you may make him put his fingers between his toes and smell to them, it's very sovereign for his head if he be costive. _Mist. Mer._ Master Knight of the Burning Pestle, my son Michael and I bid you farewell; I thank your worship heartily for your kindness.