Val. With me, thou man of Memphis?
Lan. But that thou art mine own natural master, yet my sack says thou art no man, thou art a Pagan, and pawnest thy land, which a noble cause.
Val. No arms, nor arms, good Lancelot, dear Lance, no fighting here, we will have Lands boy, Livings, and Titles, thou shalt be a Vice-Roy, hang fighting, hang't 'tis out of fashion.
Lan. I would fain labour you into your lands again, go to, it is behoveful.
Fran. Fie Lance, fie.
Lan. I must beat some body, and why not my Master, before a stranger? charity and beating begins at home.
Val. Come, thou shalt beat me.
Lan. I will not be compel'd, and you were two Masters, I scorn the motion.
Val. Wilt thou sleep?
Lan. I scorn sleep.