Lor. Horatio,
You tender me part of mine own, you know.
Hor. Well, peace; with my blood dispense,
Until my liege shall end the difference.
Jer. Lorenzo, thou dost boast of base renown;
Why, I could whip all these, were their hose down.
Hor. Speak, prince, to whether dost thou yield?
Bal. The vanquished yields to both, to you [the] first.
Hor. O abject prince! what, dost thou yield to two?
Jer. Content thee, boy; thou shalt sustain no wrong.