You were never at the dealing of fence-blows, but you had four away for your part.
It is but your luck, you are man good enough;
But the Welsh Onaphets was a vengeance-knave, and rough.
Master, you were best go home and rest in your bed,
Methinks your cap waxeth too little for your head.
Carisophus. What! doth my head swell?
Jack. Yea, as big as a codshead, and bleeds too.
Carisophus. I am ashamed to show my face with this hue.
Jack. No shame at all; men have been beaten far better than you.
Carisophus. I must go to the chirurgeon’s; what shall I say, when I am a-dressing?