]
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.
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