Mart. Yes Sir, I have snigled him, and if there be
Any desert in his blood, beside the itch,
Or manly heat, but what decoctions
Leaches, and callises have cram'd into him,
Your Lordship shall know perfect.
Thier. What's that, may not I know too?
Theod. Yes Sir,
To that end we cast the project.
Thierry. What [ist]?
Mart. A desire Sir,
Upon the gilded flag your Graces favor
Has stuck up for a Generall, and to inform you,
For this hour he shall pass the test, what valour,
Staid judgement, soul, or safe discretion
Your mothers wandring eyes, and your obedience
Have flung upon us, to assure your knowledge,
He can be, dare be, shall be, must be nothing,
Load him with piles of honors; Set him off
With all the cunning foyls that may deceive us:
But a poor, cold, unspirited, unmanner'd,
Unhonest, unaffected, undone, fool,
And most unheard of coward, a meer lump
Made to loade beds withall, and like a night-mare,
Ride Ladies that forget to say their prayers,
One that dares only be diseas'd, and in debt,
Whose body mewes more plaisters every month,
Than women doe old faces.
Thier. No more, I know him,
I now repent my error, take your time
And try him home, ever thus far reserv'd,
You tie your anger up.
Thier. Bring me his sword fair taken without violence,
For that will best declare him.
Theod. That's the thing.
Th[ie]r. And my best horse is thine.