[Bagshot draws his inkhorn, and Rhymewell
catcheth off Sir Christopher's hat and
spectacles.
Rhyme. And thus I am prepar'd to answer thee.
Chris. For the good saint's sake, part them: I am blind,
If that my spectacles should once miscarry.
Rhyme. Caitiff, this holy instrument shall quail thee.
Bag. And this shall send thee to thy cousin furies.
Chris. I feel a film come o'er mine eyes already:
I must look out an animal conductive—
I mean a dog.
And. Pray y', beat not out his eyes in
Another's hands.
Chris. Most strongly urg'd!
Catch. Your words
Are merely wind. James, ho! what, James, some beer.
They're mastiff dogs; they wont be parted, sir,
Without good store of liquor.
Enter Servant, with beer.