Thou’rt so profanely leud, so curst by Heaven,
All Quarrels thou espousest must be fatal.
Will. [Nay, an you be so hot], my Valour’s coy,
And shall be courted when you want it next. [Puts up his Sword.
Belv. You know I ought to claim a Victor’s Right, [To Pedro.
But you’re the Brother to divine Florinda,
To whom I’m such a Slave—to purchase her,
I durst not hurt the Man she holds so dear.
Pedro. ’Twas by Antonio’s, not by Belvile’s Sword,
This Question should have been decided, Sir: