FRAN. Must I? how, if I will not?
COOMES. Why, then, 'tis a fine world, when boys keep boys, and know not how to use them.
FRAN. Boy, ye rascal!
MRS GOUR. Strike him, and thou darest.
COOMES. Strike me? alas, he were better strike his father! Sowns, go to, put up your bodkin.[342]
FRAN. Mother, stand by; I'll teach that rascal—
COOMES. Go to, give me good words, or, by God's dines,[343] I'll buckle ye for all your bird-spit.
FRAN. Will you so, sir?
PHIL. Stay, Frank, this pitch of frenzy will defile thee;
Meddle not with it: thy unreproved valour
Should be high-minded; couch it not so low.
Dost hear me? take occasion to slip hence,
But secretly, let not thy mother see thee:
At the back-side there is a coney-green;[344]
Stay there for me, and Mall and I will come to thee. [Aside.]
FRAN. Enough, I will [Aside.] Mother, you do me wrong
To be so peremptory in your command,
And see that rascal to abuse me so.