Luc. What would you have me do? this scurvy sword
So galls my thigh: I would 't were burnt: pish, look,
This Cloak will ne'r keep on: these Boots too hide-bound,
Make me walk stiff, as if my legs were frozen,
And my Spurs gingle like a Morris-dancer:
Lord, how my head akes with this roguish Hat;
This masculine attire is most uneasie,
I am bound up in it: I had rather walk
In folio, again, loose like a woman.
Bob. In Foolio, had you not?
Thou mock to heav'n, and nature, and thy Parents,
Thou tender Leg of Lamb; oh, how he walks
As if he had bepiss'd himself, and fleers!
Is this a gate for the young Cavalier,
Don Lucio, Son and Heir to Alvarez?
Has it a corn? or do's it walk on conscience,
It treads so gingerly? Come on your ways,
Suppose me now your Fathers foe, Vitelli,
And spying you i' th' street, thus I advance
I twist my Beard, and then I draw my sword.
Luc. Alas.
Bob. And thus accost thee: traiterous brat,
How durst thou thus confront me? impious twig
Of that old stock, dew'd with my kinsmans gore,
Draw, for I'll quarter thee in pieces four.
Luc. Nay, prethee Bobadilla, leave thy fooling,
Put up thy sword, I will not meddle with ye;
I, justle me, I care not: I'll not draw,
Pray be a quiet man.
Bob. D'ye hear: answer me, as you would do Don Vitelli,
or I'll be so bold as to lay the pomel of my sword over the hilts
of your head: my name's Vitelli, and I'll have the wall.
Luc. Why then I'll have the kennel: what a coil you keep!
Signior, what happen'd 'twixt my Sire and your
Kinsman, was long before I saw the world,
No fault of mine, nor will I justifie
My Fathers crimes: forget Sir, and forgive.
'Tis Christianity: I pray put up your sword,
I'll give you any satisfaction
That may become a Gentleman: however
I hope you are bred to more humanity
Than to revenge my Fathers wrong on me
That crave your love, and peace: law-you-now Zancho
Would not this quiet him, were he ten Vitellies.
Bob. Oh craven-chicken of a Cock o' th' game: well, what remedy? did thy Father see this, O' my conscience, he would cut off thy Masculine gender, crop thine ears, beat out thine eyes, and set thee in one of the Pear trees for a scare-crow: As I am Vitelli, I am satisfied; But as I am Bobadilla, Spindola, Zancho, Steward of the house, and thy Fathers Servant, I could find in my heart to lop off the hinder part of thy face, or to beat all thy teeth into thy mouth: Oh thou whay-blooded milk-sop, I'll wait upon thee no longer, thou shalt ev'n wait upon me: come your ways Sir, I shall take a little pains with ye else.
Enter Clara.
Cla. Where art thou brother Lucio? ran tan tan ta ran tan ran tan tan ta, ta ran tan tan tan. Oh, I shall no more see those golden daies, these clothes will never fadge with me: a —— O' this filthy vardingale, this hip-hape: brother, why are womens hanches only limited, confin'd, hoop'd in, as it were with these same scurvy vardingales?