Ray. A common soldier, owner of a strength worthy
Such praise? Dares he cope with the
French general single?
Phil. My lord, you must strike quick and sure.
Ray. Why pause you? my Philippa must not stay
Captivity's infection.
Mach. We have the day.
Ray. Not till you conquer me: which if my arm
Be not by witchcraft robb'd of his late strength,
Shall spin your labour to an ample length.
Mach. Upon him, then.
Gio. Odds is dishonourable combat: my lads,
Lets one to one; I am for the Moor.
Aler. Thee!
Ful. Tailor, you are too saucy.
Gio. Saucy?