Post. You have said, sir; but I am no meat for his mowing,[499] nor yours neither. If I had you in place where, you should find me tough enough in digestion, I warrant you.
Wal. What, will you swagger, sirrah? will ye swagger?
Brown. I beseech you, sir, hold your hand! get home, ye patch![500] cannot you suffer gentlemen jest with you?
Post. I'd teach him a gentle trick, and I had him off the Burse; but I'll watch him a good turn, I warrant him.
Moore. Assure ye, Master Towerson—I cannot blame him.
I warrant you it is no easy loss;
How think you, master stranger? by my faith, sir,
There's twenty merchants will be sorry for it,
That shall be partners with him in his loss.
Stran. Why, sir, what is the matter?
Moore. The Spanish galleys have beset our ships,
That lately were bound out for Syria.
Stran. What not? I promise you, I am sorry for it.
Wal. What an old ass is this to keep us here.
Master Pisaro, pray despatch us hence.
Pis. Master Vandal, I confess I wrong you:
But I'll but talk a word or two with him,
And straight turn to you. [To Heigh.] Ah! sir, and how then, faith?