ACTUS QUARTUS. SCENA PRIMA.
Enter Brisac, Eustace, Egremont, Cowsy.
Brisac. Ne'er talk to me, you are no men but Masquers; shapes, shadows, and the signs of men, Court bubbles, that every breath or breaks or blows away. You have no souls, no metal in your bloods, no heat to stir ye when ye have occasion: frozen dull things, that must be turn'd with Leavers. Are you the Courtiers, and the travell'd Gallants? the spritely Fellows that the people talk of? Ye have no more spirit than three sleepy sopes.
Eust. What would ye have me do, Sir?
Bri. Follow your Brother, and get ye out of doors, and seek your Fortune. Stand still becalm'd, and let an aged Dotard, a hair-brain'd Puppy, and a Bookish Boy, that never knew a Blade above a Pen-knife, and how to cut his meat in Characters, cross my design, and take thine own Wench from thee, in mine own house too? Thou despis'd poor fellow!
Eust. The reverence that I ever bare to you, Sir, then to my Uncle, with whom 't had been but sawciness t' have been so rough—
Egre. And we not seeing him strive in his own cause, that was principal, and should have led us on, thought it ill manners to begin a quarrel here.
Bri. You dare do nothing. Do you make your care the excuse of your Cowardise? Three Boys on Hobby-horses, with three penny Halberds, would beat you all.
Cow. You must not say so.
Bri. Yes, and sing it too.