Wild. Nay, an you talk of honour, by your leave, sir. I hate your Spanish honour, ever since it spoiled our English plays, with faces about and t'other side.
[Falls upon him and throws him down.
Mel. What do you mean, you will not murder me? Must valour be oppressed by multitudes?
Wild. Come yarely, my mates, every man to his share of the burden. Come, yarely, hay.
[The four men take him each by a limb, and carry him out, he crying murder.
Theo. If this Englishman save us now, I shall admire his wit.
Beat. Good wits never think themselves admired till they are well rewarded: You must pay him in specie, madam; give him love for his wit.
Enter the Men again.
Bel. Ladies, fear nothing, but enter into the garden-house with these cavaliers.
Mask. O that I were a cavalier too!
[Is going with them.