SCENE VIII.

Petr. He will sure come. Are ye well arm'd? Ant. Never fear us. Here's that will make 'em dance without a Fiddle. Petr. We are to look for no weak foes, my friends, Nor unadvised ones. Ant. Best gamesters make the best game, We shall fight close and handsom then. 1 Gent. Antonio, You are a thought too bloudy. Ant. Why? all Physicians And penny Almanacks allow the opening Of veins this moneth: why do ye talk of bloudy? What come we for, to fall to cuffes for apples? What, would ye make the cause a Cudgel quarrel? On what terms stands this man? is not his honour Open'd to his hand, and pickt out like an Oyster? His credit like a quart pot knockt together, Able to hold no liquor? clear but this point. Petr. Speak softly, gentle cousin. Ant. I'le speak truly; What should men do ally'd to these disgraces, Lick o're his enemie, sit down, and dance him? 2 Gent. You are as far o'th' bow hand now. Ant. And crie; That's my fine boy, thou wilt do so no more child. Petr. Here are no such cold pities. Ant. By Saint Jaques They shall not find me one: here's old tough Andrew, A special friend of mine, and he but hold, I'le strike 'em such a hornpipe: knocks I come for, And the best bloud I light on; I profess it, Not to scare Coster-mongers; If I lose mine own, Mine audits cast, and farewel five and fifty. Pet. Let's talk no longer, place your selves with silence, As I directed ye, and when time calls us, As ye are friends, so shew your selves. Ant. So be it. [Exeunt.