Sir Arthur. 
What, is breakfast ready, mine Host?

Host.
Tis, my little Hebrew.

Sir Arthur. 
Sirra, ride strait to Chesson Nunry,
Fetch thence my Lady; the house, I know,
By this time misses their young votary. 
Come, knights, let’s in!

Bilbo.  I will to horse presently, sir.—­A plague a my Lady, I shall miss a good breakfast.  Smug, how chance you cut so plaguely behind, Smug?

Smug. 
Stand away; I’ll founder you else.

Bilbo. 
Farewell, Smug, thou art in another element.

Smug. 
I will be by and by; I will be Saint George again.

Sir Arthur. 
Take heed the fellow do not hurt himself.

Sir Raph. 
Did we not last night find two S. Georges here?

Fabell. 
Yes, Knights, this martialist was one of them.

Clare. 
Then thus conclude your night of merriment!

[Exeunt Omnes.]

FINIS