Fran. She’s of years of discretion, and may dispose of her self; but I can hold no longer: and is this your Mahometan Conscience, to take other Mens Wives, as if there were not single Harlots enough in the World? [In rage.
Guz. Peace, thou diminutive Christian.
Fran. I say, Peace thou over-grown Turk.
Guz. Thou Spanish Cur.
Fran. Why, you’re a Mahometan Bitch, and you go to that.
Guz. Death, I’ll dissect the bald-pated Slave.
Fran. I defy thee, thou foul filthy Cabbage-head, for I am mad, and will be valiant.
[Guz. throws his Turbant at him.
Car. What Insolence is this!—Mutes—strangle him.—
[They put a Bow-string about his neck.