SIR JOHN. And, fellow, I tell thee that the priest hath gold. Gold? sblood, ye are but beggarly soldiers to me. I think I have more gold than all you three. HUNTINGTON. It may be so, but we believe it not. KING. Set, priest, set. I pass for all that gold. SIR JOHN. Ye pass, indeed. KING. Priest, hast thou any more? SIR JOHN. Zounds, what a question’s that? I tell thee I have more than all you three. At these ten Angels! KING. I wonder how thou comest by all this gold; How many benefices hast thou, priest? SIR JOHN. Yfaith, but one. Dost wonder how I come by gold? I wonder rather how poor soldiers should have gold; for I’ll tell thee, good fellow: we have every day tithes, offerings, christenings, weddings, burials; and you poor snakes come seldom to a booty. I’ll speak a proud word: I have but one parsonage, Wrotham; tis better than the Bishopric of Rochester. There’s ne’er a hill, heath, nor down in all Kent, but tis in my parish: Barham down, Chobham down, Gad’s Hill, Wrotham hill, Black heath, Cock’s heath, Birchen wood, all pay me tithe. Gold, quoth a? ye pass not for that. SUFFOLK. Harry, ye are out; now, parson, shake the dice. SIR JOHN. Set, set; I’ll cover ye at all. A plague on’t, I am out: the devil, and dice, and a wench, who will trust them? SUFFOLK. Sayest thou so, priest? Set fair; at all for once. KING. Out, sir; pay all. SIR JOHN. Sblood, pay me angel gold. I’ll none of your cracked French crowns nor pistolets. Pay me fair angel gold, as I pay you. KING. No cracked French crowns? I hope to see more cracked French crowns ere long. SIR JOHN. Thou meanest of French men’s crowns, when the King is in France. HUNTINGTON. Set round, at all. SIR JOHN. Pay all: this is some luck. KING. Give me the dice, tis I must shred the priest: At all, sir John. SIR JOHN. The devil and all is yours. At that! Sdeath, what casting is this? SUFFOLK. Well thrown, Harry, yfaith. KING. I’ll cast better yet. SIR JOHN. Then I’ll be hanged. Sirra, hast thou not given thy soul to the devil for casting? KING. I pass for all. SIR JOHN. Thou passest all that e’er I played withal. Sirra, dost thou not cog, nor foist, nor slur? KING. Set, parson, set; the dice die in my hand: When parson, when? what, can ye find no more? Already dry? wast you bragged of your store? SIR JOHN. All’s gone but that. HUNTINGTON. What? half a broken angel? SIR JOHN. Why sir, tis gold. KING. Yea, and I’ll cover it. SIR JOHN. The devil do ye good on’t, I am blind, ye have blown me up. KING. Nay, tarry, priest; ye shall not leave us yet. Do not these pieces fit each other well? SIR JOHN. What if they do?