Aught more? Five minutes hence, both messengers! [Puccio goes.
Brac. [After a pause, and while he slowly tears the paper into shreds.]
I think ... (pray God, I hold in fit contempt
This warfare 's noble art and ordering,
And,—once the brace of prizers fairly matched,
Poleaxe with poleaxe, knife with knife as good,—
Spit properly at what men term their skill!—)
Yet here I think our fighter has the odds.
With Pisa's strength diminished thus and thus,
Such points of vantage in our hands and such,