Cicely. What, Master Nicholas, what? Nicholas. “Put on your smock a’ Monday.” Jenkin. So the dance will come cleanly off. Come, for God’s sake agree of something: if you like not that, put it to the musicians; or let me speak for all, and we’ll have “Sellenger’s round.” All. That, that, that. Nicholas. No, I am resolved, thus it shall be: First take hands, then take ye to your heels. Jenkin. Why, would ye have us run away? Nicholas. No; but I would have you shake your heels. Music, strike up! [_They dance_. Nicholas _whilst dancing speaks stately and scurvily, the rest after the country fashion_. Jenkin. Hey! lively, my lasses! here’s a turn for thee! [_Exeunt_. SCENE III.--_The Open Country_. _Horns wind. Enter_ Sir Charles Mountford, Sir Francis Acton, Malby, Cranwell, Wendoll, Falconers, _and_ Huntsmen. Sir Charles Mountford. So; well cast off: aloft, aloft! well flown! Oh, now she takes her at the sowse,[1.09] and strikes her Down to the earth, like a swift thunder-clap. Wendoll. She hath struck ten angels out of my way. Sir Francis Acton. A hundred pound from me. Sir Charles Mountford. What, falconer! Falconer. At hand, sir. Sir Charles Mountford. Now she hath seized the fowl, and ’gins to plume her, Rebeck her not: rather stand still and check her. So, seize her gets,[1.10] her jesses,[1.11] and her bells: Away! Sir Francis Acton. My hawk killed too. Sir Charles Mountford. Ay, but ’twas at the querre,[1.12] Not at the mount, like mine. Sir Francis Acton. Judgment, my masters. Cranwell. Yours missed her at the ferre. Wendoll. Ay, but our merlin[1.13] first had plumed the fowl, And twice renewed her from the river too; Her bells, Sir Francis, had not both one weight, Nor was one semi-tune above the other: Methinks these Milan bells do sound too full, And spoil the mounting of your hawk. Sir Charles Mountford. ’Tis lost. Sir Francis Acton. I grant it not. Mine likewise seized a fowl Within her talons; and you saw her paws Full of the feathers: both her petty singles, And her long singles gripped her more than other; The terrials of her legs were stained with blood: Not of the fowl only, she did discomfit Some of her feathers; but she brake away. Come, come, your hawk is but a rifler. Sir Charles Mountford. How! Sir Francis Acton. Ay, and your dogs are trindle-tails and curs. Sir Charles Mountford. You stir my blood. You keep not one good hound in all your kennel, Nor one good hawk upon your perch. Sir Francis Acton. How, knight! Sir Charles Mountford. So, knight: you will not swagger, sir? Sir Francis Acton. Why, say I did? Sir Charles Mountford. Why, sir, I say you would gain as much by swaggering, As you have got by wagers on your dogs: You will come short in all things. Sir Francis Acton. Not in this: Now I’ll strike home.