Dor. Well, Benducar.
Bend. Bare Benducar!
Dor. Thou would'st have titles; take them then,—chief minister,
First hangman of the state.
Bend. Some call me, favourite.
Dor. What's that?—his minion?—
Thou art too old to be a catamite!—
Now pr'ythee tell me, and abate thy pride,
Is not Benducar, bare, a better name
In a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles,
Which I disdain to give the man I love?
Bend. But always out of humour,—
310 Dor. I have cause:
Though all mankind is cause enough for satire.
Bend. Why, then, thou hast revenged thee on mankind.
They say, in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword,
And well 'twas glutted there.
Dor. I spitted frogs; I crushed a heap of emmets;
A hundred of them to a single soul,
And that but scanty weight too. The great devil
Scarce thanked me for my pains; he swallows vulgar
Like whipped cream,—feels them not in going down.
Bend. Brave renegade!—Could'st thou not meet Sebastian?
Thy master had been worthy of thy sword.