Cor. Who do you belong to, friend?
Cor. Do not you serve?
Diego. Yes, sir; but my master is not himself.
Cor. Take his sword from him, sergeant.
[The Sergeant goes to lake away his sword.
Diego. Diego, disarm'd by any other hand
Than by his own? Know, friend, it is a weapon
Of such dire execution, that I dare not
Give it up but to the hands of justice.
[The Corregidor receives the sword, and gives it to the hands of his Sergeants.
Pray call for't, sir, as soon as you come home,
And hang't up in your hall, then underwrite,
This is bold Diego's sword. O, may it be
Ever from rust, as 'tis from slaughter, free!
Cor. Thou art a fellow of a pleasant humour.