Cal. O Melantius, my Daughter will die.
Mel. Trust me, I am sorry; would thou hadst ta'ne her room.
Cal. Thou art a slave, a cut-throat slave, a bloody treacherous slave.
Melan. Take heed old man, thou wilt be heard to rave,
And lose thine Offices.
Cal. I am valiant grown
At all these years, and thou art but a slave.
Mel. Leave, some company will come, and I respect
Thy years, not thee so much, that I could wish
To laugh at thee alone.
Cal. I'le spoil your mirth, I mean to fight with thee;
There lie my Cloak, this was my Fathers Sword,
And he durst fight; are you prepar'd?
Mel. Why? wilt thou doat thy self out of thy life?
Hence get thee to bed, have careful looking to, and eat
warm things, and trouble not me: my head is full of
thoughts more weighty than thy life or death can be.
Cal. You have a name in War, when you stand safe
Amongst a multitude; but I will try
What you dare do unto a weak old man
In single fight; you'l ground I fear: Come draw.
Mel. I will not draw, unless thou pul'st thy death
Upon thee with a stroke; there's no one blow
That thou canst give, hath strength enough to kill me.
Tempt me not so far then; the power of earth
Shall not redeem thee.