Lope. I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.
Cres. And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour, I’ll cut him down before hanging.
Lope. Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit?
Cres. To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My goods and chattels, ay, and my life—are the king’s; but my honour is my own soul’s, and that is—God Almighty’s!
Lope. ’Fore God, there’s some truth in what you say.
Cres. ’Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.
Lope. Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine (which I wish the devil who gave it would carry away with him!) cries for rest.
Cres. And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose, who gave you your leg, gave me a bed (which I don’t want him to take away again, however) on which your leg may lie if it like.
Lope. But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as give it?
Cres. To be sure he did.