Don O. Come, Diego, 'tis now time to quit our dens,
And to begin our chase.
Diego. Of what, sir? bats or owls, now the sun's set?
Call you this making of love? why, methinks,
'Tis more like making of war: marching all night
In arms, as if we design'd to beat up
The enemy's quarters.
Don O. Why, would not you venture as much for Flora?
Diego. No, in good faith, sir; I shall venture enough,
If e'er I marry her: I'll run no hazard
By my good-will beforehand.
Don O. That's from your fear, not prudence, Diego.
Diego. Sir, you may call it what you please; but I
Dare boldly say, there lives not in the world
A more valiant man than I, whilst danger
Keeps its distance; but when saucily
It presses on, then, I confess, 'tis true,
I have a certain tenderness for life,
Which checks my ardour, and inclines my prudence
Timely to withdraw.
Don O. Your style is wondrous civil to yourself;
How you soften that harsh word call'd cowardice.
But the danger is not always evident,
When you are pleas'd, my friend, to run away.
Diego. It may be so, sir—not to vulgar eyes;
But I have such a piercing sight, that I
Discover perils out of others' ken;
Which they, not seeing soon enough to shun,
Are forc'd t' encounter; and then their struggling
Is by th' unwary world taken for courage.
Don O. Who's truly valiant will be always so.
Diego. Who's wisely valiant will avoid the foe.