Sir Vaugh. Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub.
Tu. If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple.
Cris. How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound;
Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man?
Come, put thy heart into his place againe;
Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine.
Sir Vau. I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking.
Ho. Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate.
Tuc. Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon.
Mi. O most pittifull as blunt as my great thumbe.
Sir Vau. By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.