Lam. This curtesie
Wounds deeper than your Sword can, or mine own;
Pray you make use of either, and dispatch me.
Luc. The barbarous Turk is satisfied with spoil;
And shall I, being possest of what I came for,
Prove the more Infidel?
Lam. You were better be so,
Than publish my disgrace, as 'tis [t]he custom,
And which I must expect.
Luc. Judge better on me:
I have no tongue to trumpet mine own praise
To your dishonor: 'tis a bastard courage
That seeks a name out that way, no true born one;
Pray you be comforted, for by all goodness
But to her virtuous self, the best part of it,
I never will discover on what terms
I came by these: which yet I take not from you,
But leave you in exchange of them, mine own,
With the desire of being a friend; which if
You will not grant me, but on farther trial
Of manhood in me, seek me when you please,
(And though I might refuse it with mine honor)
Win them again, and wear them: so good morrow. [Exit.
Lam. I ne'r knew what true valor was till now;
And have gain'd more by this disgrace, than all
The honors I have won: they made me proud,
Presumptuous of my fortune; a mere beast,
Fashion'd by them, only to dare and do:
Yielding no reasons for my wilful actions
But what I stuck on my Swords point, presuming
It was the best Revenew. How unequal
Wrongs well maintain'd makes us to others, which
Ending with shame teach us to know our selves,
I will think more on't.
Enter Vitelli.
Vit. Lamorall.
Lam. My Lord?
Vit. I came to seek you.
Lam. And unwillingly;
You ne'r found me tll now: your pleasure Sir?