Part 7 (1/2)

_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.