Ism. I thank ye Sir,
Indeed I thank ye nobly: a brave Enemy,
Here's a sweet temper now: This is a man (Brother)
This Gentleman's anger is so nobly seated,
That it becomes him: Yours proclaim ye Monsters.
What if he be our House-Foe? we may brag on't:
We have ne'er a friend in all our House so honorable:
I had rather from an Enemy, my Brother,
Learn worthy distances and modest difference,
Than from a race of empty friends, loud nothings:
I am hurt between ye.
Am. So am I, I fear too:
[I am sure their swords were between my leggs]: Dear Cosen
Why look ye pale? where are ye hurt?
Ism. I know not,
But here methinks.
Lis. Unlace her gentle Cousen.
Ism. My heart, my heart, and yet I bless the Hurter.
Am. Is it so dangerous?
Ism. Nay, nay, I faint not.
Am. Here is no blood that I find, sure 'tis inward:
Ism. Yes, yes, 'tis inward: 'twas a subtle weapon,
The hurt not to be cur'd I fear.
Lis. The Coach there.