Bon. Why doe you inquire, good puff past?
Suc. My blade
Is of the Bilbo[116] mettle; at its splendor
My foes does vanish.
Bon. Ile try that presently;—feare nothing, ladyes.
Suc. Death! now I thinke out, I did breake my blade this morning on foure that did waylay me: Ile goe fetch another, and then I am for you.
Crac. Take myne, Captaine.
Suc. Hold your peace, be wise: that fellow
In the blew garment has a countenance
Presages losse of limme if we encounter.—
Ile meet you presently.
Bon. It shall not serve your turne yet: Ile not blunt My sword upon such stock fish. Grimes, bestow Thy timber on them.
Grimes. Come, sir. [beats them.
Suc. Take me without a weapon? this cudgell sure Is Crabb tree, it tasts so sourely. [Exeunt.
Bel. Oh, my Deare Bonvill.