Fab. O, ye are a sweet youth, so uncivilly
To rail, and run away!
Jac. O! are you there, Sir?
I am glad I have found ye, you have not now your Ladies,
To shew your wit before.
Fab. Thou wou'lt not, wou'lt 'ou?
Jac. What a sweet youth I am, as you have made me,
You shall know presently.
Fab. Put up your Sword,
I have seen it often, 'tis a Fox.
Jac. It is so,
And you shall feel it too; will you dispatch, Sir?
And leave your mirth out? or I shall take occasion
To beat ye, and disgrace ye too.
Fab. Well, since there is no other way to deal with you,
Let's see your Sword, I am sure you scorn all odds,
I will fight with you—
Jac. How now? [They measure, and Fab. gets his Sword.
Fab. Nay, stand out,
Or by this light, I'll make ye.
Jac. This is scurvy,
And out of fear done.