Well. But now you talk of young Bold—when did you see him, lady?
Wid. Not this month, Master Welltried.
I did conjure him to forbear my sight;
Indeed, swore if he came, I'd be denied.
But 'tis strange you should ask for him: ye two
Were wont never to be asunder.
Well. Faith, madam, we never were together, but
We differ'd on some argument or other;
And doubting lest our discord might at length
Breed to some quarrel, I forbear him too.
Fee. He quarrel? Bold? hang him, if he durst have quarrelled, the world knows he's within a mile of an oak has put him to't, and soundly. I never cared for him in my life, but to see his sister: he's an ass, pox! an arrant ass; for do you think any but an arrant ass would offer to come a-wooing where a lord attempts? He quarrel!—he dares not quarrel.
Well. But he dares fight, my lord, upon my knowledge:
And rail no more, my lord, behind his back,
For if you do, my lord, blood must ensue.
[Draws.
Fee. O, O, my honour dies! I am dead.
[Swoons.
Well. Ud's light, what's the matter? wring him by the nose.
Wid. A pair of riding spurs, now, were worth gold.
Maid. Pins are as good. Prick him, prick him.
Fee. O, O!