Strange. Thou unspeakable rascal! thou, a soldier!
A captain of the suburbs, a poor foist,[52]
That with thy slops and cat-a-mountain face,
Thy bladder-chops and thy robustious words,
Fright'st the poor whore, and terribly dost exact
A weekly subsidy, twelvepence apiece,
Whereon thou liv'st; and on my conscience,
Thou snapp'st besides with cheats and cutpurses.
Capt. Pouts. Heart! this is some railing poet.
Why, you rogue!
Strange. Thou rogue—far worse than rogues—thou slanderer!
Capt. Pouts. Thou worse than slanderous rogues; thou murderer!
Strange. 'Tis well-remember'd: I will cut thy throat,
To appease that merchant's soul, which ne'er will rest
Till some revenge be taken on thy tongue.
Capt. Pouts. I'll kill thee first, and in thy vital flood
Wash my hands clean of that young merchant's blood.
[Fight.
Strange. You fight, as if you had fought afore.
I can still hold my sword: come on, sir.
Capt. Pouts. 'Zoons! can you ward so well? I think you are
One of the noble science of defence.
Strange. True, o' th' science of noble defence I am,
That fight in safeguard of a virtuous name.
[Cadit Captain Pouts.
Capt. Pouts. O, now I understand you, and you stand over me. My hurts are not mortal, but you have the better. If your name be Worldly, be thankful for your fortune.