[Fight again.]
HUSBAND.
Have you got tricks? are you in cunning with me?
GENTLEMAN.
No, plain and right.
He needs no cunning that for truth doth fight.
[Husband falls down.]
HUSBAND.
Hard fortune, am I leveld with the ground?
GENTLEMAN.
Now, sir, you lie at mercy.
HUSBAND.
Aye, you slave.
GENTLEMAN.
Alas, that hate should bring us to our grave.
You see my sword’s not thirsty for your life,
I am sorrier for your wound then your self.
Y’are of a vertuous house, show vertuous deeds;
Tis not your honour, tis your folly bleeds;
Much good has been expected in your life,
Cancel not all men’s hopes: you have a wife
Kind and obedient: heap not wrongful shame
On her and your posterity, nor blame
Your overthrow; let only sin be sore,
And by this fall, rise never to fall more.
And so I leave you.
[Exit.]
HUSBAND
Has the dog left me, then,
After his tooth hath left me? oh, my heart
Would fain leap after him. Revenge, I say,
I’m mad to be reveng’d. My strumpet wife,
It is thy quarrel that rips thus my flesh,
And makes my breast spit blood, but thou shalt bleed.
Vanquisht? got down? unable e’en to speak?
Surely tis want of money makes men weak.
Aye, twas that orethrew me; I’d nere been down else.