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.
SCENE IX.
Enter Don John, and his Land-lady.
Land. Nay Son, if this be your regard.