Strange. You are the nobler captain, sir;
For I know many that usurp that name,
Whose standings pay for them.
Capt. Pouts. You are a peddler.
Strange. You are a pot-gun.
Capt. Pouts. Merchant, I would thou hadst an iron tail,
Like me.
C. Fred. Fie, captain! You are to blame.
Pen. Nay, God's will! You are to blame indeed, if my lord say so.
Capt. Pouts. My lord's an ass, and you are another.
Abra. Sweet Mistress Luce, let you and I withdraw:
This is his humour. Send for the constable!
Capt. Pouts. Sirrah, I'll beat you with a pudding on the 'Change.
Strange. Thou dar'st as well kiss the wide-mouthed cannon
At his discharging, as perform as much
As thou dar'st speak; for, soldier, you shall know,
Some can use swords, that wear 'em not for show.