Rod. Ye argue well Sir.
Mar. Nor do I wear my youth, as they wear breeches,
For object, but for use: my strength for danger,
Which is the liberal part of man, not dalliance,
The wars must be my Mistress Sir.
Rod. Oh Signior,
You'll find her a rough wench.
Mar. When she is won once,
She'll show the sweeter Sir.
Rod. You can be pleas'd, though
Sometimes to take a tamer?
Mar. 'Tis a truth Sir,
So she be handsome, and not ill condition'd.
Rod. A Soldier should not be so curious.
Marc. I can make shift with any for a heat Sir.
Rod. Nay, there you wrong your youth too: and however
You are pleas'd to appear to me, which shews well Signior,
A tougher soul than your few years can testifie:
Yet, my young Sir, out of mine own experience
When my spring was, I am able to confute ye,
And say, y' had rather come to th' shock of eies,
And boldly march up to your Mistriss mouth,
Then to the Cannons.
Mar. That's as their lading is Sir.