From my vnconquerd arme.
Atl. That shall be tride.
I’le fit you, Sir, in your owne element.
I thinke thou darest not looke vpon a sword.
See, there’s a foyle: I will but thumpe you, Sir.
Thy life’s reseru’d vnto a worse reuenge. |Play.|
Mis. Oh. Some Deuil’s enterd in this Idol sure,
To make mee misbelieue. Oh.
Atl. Cowardly slaue. A Fencer? you a Fidler.
He cannot hold his weapon,