[To Carlos.
Car. You'll find Camillo, Sir, will set your hand out.
Lor. A beardless boy. You might have match'd me better, Sir: but prudence is a virtue.
Don Fel. Nay, son, I wou'd not have thee despise thy adversary neither; thou'lt find Camillo will put thee hardly to't.
Lor. I wish we were come to the trial. Why does he not appear?
Jacin. Now do I hate to hear people brag thus. Sir, with my lady's leave, I'll hold a ducat he disarms you.
[They laugh.
Lor. Why, what!—I think I'm sported with. Take heed, I warn you all; I am not to be trifled with.
Enter Camillo and Isabella.