Cou. Excellent wench!
De. I was your Champion, lady.
Sis. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it.
Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme
A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants
And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants
They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles,
Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes
To the Bankeside and save the Beares a whipping
That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging
A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too.
Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.
De. At that weapon?
Sis. This, and no other.
De. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword
In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes
May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave
The Lillies to lament the rude divorce.
But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy,
My rage more nimble then [the] Median shaft
Should flie into his bosome, and your eye
Change anger into smiles to see me fight
And cut him into a ragged staffe.
Enter Courtwell.
Cou. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword.
De. Ha you an ambush, Lady? Ile cry out murder. Is two to one faire play?
Cou. Let me cut one legg of, to marre his running.