’Tis a sharp sword. But I will show it thee
For its strange quality: the which methinks
Might pass for magic, were’t not that an Arian,
Late come to Sardis, knows the art to make it.
Tho’ wrought of iron, look ye, ’tis blue as flint,
And if I bend it, it springs back like a bow:
’Tis sharper too than flint; but the edge is straight,
And will not chip. Nay, touch it not; have care!
Ach. Pray, let me see it, and take it in my hand.
[Takes it and comes to front.