Dor. Nay, you did call mee, that I was loath to heare,
Truly such woords as a dogg would not beare. 640
But as I scorne so to bee ast & knaved,
Soe truly doe I scorne to bee outbraved.
Cli. O frieng panne of all fritters of fraud,
My scindifer, that longe hath beene vndrawde,
Shall come out of his sheath most fiery hott,
And slice thee small, even as hearbes to pott.
Dor. Thou huge & humminge humblebee, thou hornett,
Come doe thy worst, I say that I doe scorne it.
Cli. O with thy bloud Ile make so redd my whineard,
F. 69r rev.As ripest liquor is of grapes in vineyearde. 650
Dor. And with thy bloud Ile make my swoord so ruddye,
As skye at eventide shall not bee soe bloudye.
[They fight & fall.
Cli. O, O, about my harte I feele a paine;
Dorastus, hold thy handes, for I am slaine.
Dor. This shall thy comfort bee when thou art dead,
That thou hast kild mee too, for I am spedd.
Cli. O, I am dead, depart life out of hand,
Stray, soule, from home vnto the Stingian strand.
Dor. Goe thou, my ghost, complaine thee vnto Rhadamant
That the 3 sisters hartes are made of adamant. 660