Arm. Sweet smoke of rhetoric!
He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that’s he:
I shoot thee at the swain.
Moth.
[060] Thump, then, and I flee. [Exit.
[061] Arm. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace!
By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:
[063] Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
My herald is return’d.