I long to hear the music of clashed swords.
Bal. Why, thou shalt hear it presently.
[They offer to fight.
And. Quickly then.
Bal. Why now.
Gen. O stay, my lords,
This will but breed a mutiny in the camp.
Bal. I am all fire, Andrea.
And. Art thou? good:
Why, then, I’ll quench thee, prince, with thine own blood.