Corn. Corporall Nichodemus, a word with you.
Nic. My worthie Sutler Cornelius, it befits not Nichodemus the Roman Officer to parley with a fellow of thy rank: the affairs of the Empire are to be occupied.
Corn. Let the affaires of the Empire lie a while unoccupied, sweet Nichodemus; I doe require the money at thy hands, which thou doest owe me; and if faire means cannot attain, force of Armes shall accomplish.
Nic. Put up and live.
Corn. I have put up too much already, thou Corporall of Concupiscence, for I suspect thou hast dishonored my flock-bed, and with thy foolish Eloquence, and that bewitching face of thine drawn my Wife, the young harlotrie baggage to prostitute herself unto thee. Draw therefore, for thou shalt find thyself a mortall Corporall.
Nichod. Stay thy dead-doing hand, and heare: I will rather descend from my honor, and argue these contumelies with thee, then clutch thee (poor flye) in these eaglet —— of mine: or draw my sword of Fate on a Pesant, a Besognio, a Cocoloch, as thou art. Thou shalt first understand this foolish eloquence, and intolerable beauty of mine (both which, I protest, are meerly naturall) are the gifts of the gods, with which I have neither sent baudy Sonnet, nor amorous glance, or (as the vulgar call it) sheeps eye to thy betrothed Florence.
Cor. Thou lyest.
Nich. O gods of Rome, was Nichodemus born
To hear these braveries from a poor provant?
Yet when dogs bark, or when the asses bray,
The lion laughs, not roars, but goes his way.
Cornel. A —— o' your poeticall veine: This versifying my wife has hornified me. Sweet Corporall codshead, no more standing on your punctilio's and punketto's of honor, they are not worth a lowse: the truth is, thou art the Generals Bygamie, that is, his fool, and his knave; thou art miscreant and recreant, not an horse-boy in the Legions, but has beaten thee; thy beginning was knap-sack, and thy ending will be halter-sack.