Long. How my Lord?
Ami. I think I too much grace you; rather you are a fellow dares not fight, but spit and puffe and make a noyse, whilst your trembling hand draws out your Sword, to lay it upon andirons, stools or tables, rather than on a man.
Long. Your honor may best speak this; yet —— with little safety, if I thought it serious.
Ami. Come, you are a verie braggart, and you have given me cause to tell you so: what weakness have you ever seen in me to prompt your self, that I could need you help; or what other reason could induce you to it? you never yet had a meals meat from my Table, nor as I remember from my Wardrop any cast Suit.
Lon. 'Tis true, I never durst yet have such a servile spirit, to be the minion of a full swoln Lord; but alwaies did detest such slavery: a meals meat, or a cast Suit? I wou'd first eat the stones, and from such rags the dunghils doe afford, pick me a garment.
Ami. I have mistook the man, his resolute spirit
Proclaimes him generous, he has a noble heart
As free to utter good deeds as to act them;
For had he not been right, and of one piece,
He would have crumpled, curled, and struck himself
Out of the shape of man into a shaddow.
But prethee tell me, if no such fawning hope
Did lead thee on to hazard life for my sake;
What was it that incited thee?
Tell me; speak it without the imputation of a Sycophant.
Long. Your own desert, and with it was joyn'd the unfained friendship that I judged you ever held unto my former Lord.
Ami. The noble Montague?
Long. Yes, the noble and much injured Montague.