IRISHMAN. Alas, poe mester, Sir Rishard Lee, be saint Patrick is rob and cut thy trote for dee shaine, and dy money, and dee gold ring be me truly: is love thee well, but now dow be kill, thee bee shitten kanave. SIR JOHN. Stand, sirra; what art thou? IRISHMAN. Be saint Patrick, mester, is pore Irisman, is a leufter. SIR JOHN. Sirra, sirra, you are a damned rogue; you have killed a man here, and rifled him of all that he has. Sblood, you 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. HOSTLER. God’s hat, thief, have one half peck of peas and oats more for that: as I am John Ostler, he has been ever as good a jade as ever travelled. CLUB. Faith, well said, old Jack; thou art the old lad still. HOSTLER. Come, Gaffer Club, unload, unload, and get to supper, and I’ll rub dun the while. Come. [Exeunt.] ACT V. SCENE IV. The same. A room in the carrier’s inn. [Enter the host, sir John Old-castle, and Harpoole.]