Abra. Recant? O, base! out, sword, mine honour keep:
Love, thou hast made a lion of a sheep.
Pen. But will you fight in this quarrel?
Abra. I am resolved.
Pen. Heart! I have pulled an old house over my head: here's like to be a tall fray. I perceive a fool's valianter than a knave at all times. Would I were well rid of him: I had as lief meet Hector, God knows, if he dare fight at all: they are all one to me; or, to speak more modernly, with one of the roaring boys.
[Aside.
Abra. Have you done your prayers?
Pen. Pray give me leave, sir: put up, an't please you. Are you sure my cousin Wagtail is a whore?
Abra. With sword in hand I do it not recant.
Pen. Well, it shall never be said Jack Pendant would venture his blood in a whore's quarrel. But, whore or no whore, she is most desperately in love with you: praises your head, your face, your nose, your eyes, your mouth: the fire of her commendations makes the pot of your good parts run over; and to conclude, if the whore have you not, I think the pond at Islington will be her bathing-tub, and give an end to mortal misery. But if she belie you——pray, put up, sir; she is an errant whore, and so let her go.
Abra. Does she so love me, say you?