_Cler._ I shall be glad on't.

_La-writ._ Where's my cloak, and my trinkets?

Or will you fight any longer, for a crash or two?

_Cler._ I am your n.o.ble friend, Sir.

_La-writ._ It may be so.

_Cler._ What honour shall I do you, For this great courtesie?

_La-writ._ All I desire of ye, Is to take the quarrel to your self, and let me hear no more on't, I have no liking to't, 'tis a foolish matter, And help me to put up my Sword.

_Cler._ Most willingly.

But I am bound to gratifie you, and I must not leave you.

_La-writ._ I tell you, I will not be gratified, Nor I will hear no more on't: take the Swords too, And do not anger me but leave me quietly.

For the matter of honour, 'tis at your own disposure, And so, and so. [_Exit_ La-writ.

_Cler._ This is a most rare Lawyer: I am sure most valiant. Well _Dinant_, as you satisfie me, I say no more: I am loaden like an Armorer. [_Exit_ Cler.

_Enter_ Dinant.

_Din._ To be dispatcht upon a sleeveless errand?

To leave my friend engag'd, mine honour tainted?

These are trim things. I am set here like a Perdue, To watch a fellow, that has wrong'd my Mistris, A scurvy fellow that must pa.s.s this way, But what this scurvy fellow is, or whence, Or whether his name be _William_ or _John_, Or _Anthony_ or _d.i.c.k_, or any thing, I know not; A scurvy rascally fellow I must aim at, And there's the office of an a.s.se flung on me.

Sure _Cleremont_ has fought, but how come off, And what the world shall think of me hereafter: Well, woman, woman, I must look your rascals, And lose my reputation: ye have a fine power over us.

These two long hours I have trotted here, and curiously Survey'd all goers by, yet find no rascal, Nor any face to quarel with: What's that? [La-writ _sings within, then Enters_.

This is a rascally voice, sure it comes this way.

_La-writ._ _He strook so hard, the Bason broke, And_ Tarquin _heard the sound_.

_Din._ What Mister thing is this? let me survey it.

_La-writ._ _And then he strook his neck in two._

_Din._ This may be a rascal, but 'tis a mad rascal, What an Alphabet of faces he puts on!

Hey how it fences! if this should be the rogue, As 'tis the likeliest rogue I see this day--

_La-wr._ _Was ever man for Ladies sake? down, down._

_Di._ And what are you good Sir? down, down, down, down.

_La-writ._ What's that to you good Sir? down, down.

_Din._ A pox on you good Sir, down, down, down, You with your Buckram bag, what make you here?

And from whence come you? I could fight with my shadow now.

_La-wr._ Thou fierce man that like Sir _Lancelot_ dost appear, I need not tell thee what I am, nor eke what I make here.

_Din._ This is a precious knave, stay, stay, good _Tristram_, And let me ask thy mightiness a question, Did ye never abuse a Lady?

_La-writ._ Not; to abuse a Lady, is very hard, Sir.

_Din._ Say you so, Sir?

Didst thou never abuse her honour?

_La-writ._ Not; to abuse her honour, is impossible.

_Din._ Certain this is the rascal: What's thy name?

_La-writ._ My name is _c.o.c.k o' two_, use me respectively, I will be c.o.c.k of three else.

_Din._ What's all this?

You say, you did abuse a Lady.

_La-writ._ You ly.

_Din._ And that you wrong'd her honour.

_La-writ._ That's two lyes, Speak suddenly, for I am full of business.

_Din._ What art thou, or what canst thou be, thou pea-goose, That dar'st give me the ly thus? thou mak'st me wonder.

_La-writ._ And wonder on, till time make all things plain.

_Din._ You must not part so, Sir, art thou a Gentleman?

_La-writ._ Ask those upon whose ruins I am mounted.

_Din._ This is some Cavellero Knight o'th' Sun.

_La-wr._ I tell thee I am as good a Gentleman as the Duke; I have atchieved--goe follow thy business.

_Din._ But for this Lady, Sir--

_La-writ._ Why, hang this Lady, Sir, And the Lady Mother too, Sir, what have I to do with Ladies?

_Enter_ Cleremont.

_Cler._ 'Tis the little Lawyers voice: has he got my way?

It should be hereabouts.

_Din._ Ye dry bisket rogue, I will so swinge you for this blasphemie-- Have I found you out?

_Cler._ That should be _Dinants_ tongue too.

_La-wr._ And I defy thee do thy worst: _O ho quoth_ Lancelot _tho_.

And that thou shalt know, I am a true Gentleman, And speak according to the phrase triumphant; Thy Lady is a scurvy Lady, and a s.h.i.tten Lady, And though I never heard of her, a deboshed Lady, And thou, a squire of low degree; will that content thee?