Bob. Softly y' had best.
Cla. Now, thou lean, dry'd, and ominous visag'd knave,
Thou false and peremptory Steward, pray,
For I will hang thee up in thine own chain.
Luc. Good Sister do not choak him.
Bob. Murder, murder. [Exit.
Cla. Well: I shall meet with ye: Lucio, who bought this?
'Tis a reasonable good one; but there hangs one
Spain's Champion ne'er us'd truer: with this Staffe
Old Alvarez has led up men so close,
They could almost spit in the Cannons mouth,
Whilst I with that, and this well mounted, scour'd
A Horse-troop through, and through, like swift desire,
And seen poor rogues retire, all gore, and gash'd
Like bleeding Shads.
Luc. Bless us, Sister Clara.
How desperately you talk: what d' ye call
This Gun a dag?
Cla. I'll give't thee: a French petronel:
You never saw my Barbary, the Infanta
Bestow'd upon me, as yet Lucio?
Walk down, and see it.
Luc. What into the Stable?
Not I, the Jades will kick: the poor Groom there
Was almost spoil'd the other day.
Cla. Fie on thee,
Thou wilt scarce be a man before thy Mother.
Luc. When will you be a woman?