Gow. Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an ancient tradition,—begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of predeceased valour,—and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your words? I have seen you gleeking[4] and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could not therefore handle an English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition.[5] Fare ye well.
Exit, L.H.
Pist. Doth fortune play the huswife[6] with me now?
Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
Honour is cudgell’d.
To England will I steal:
And patches will I get unto these scars,
And swear, I got them in the Gallia wars.
Exit, R.H.