Pir. Shall? It must not so tamely be thought on.
Des. How?
Pir. I spoke it, sir.
Des. Are you sent to own the quarrel?
Pir. No; but look on't with so much soul, as I think't
An honour to wear a sword in't.
Des. Go, go hang it in your mistress's chamber!
It stinks, sir, of perfume.
Pir. It may, sir (for destiny has many ways to the wood[26]),
Cut your throat; and then I'll give't your footboy.
Des. My throat, Pirez! that saucy thought has
Ruin'd thee. [Fight.
Enter Sampayo and De Loome.
Samp. Hold, hold, colonel.