Mons. Nay, faith, I am resolved to beat you out of this ill-humour.
Ger. Faith, I am afraid I shall first beat you into an ill-humour.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! that thou shouldst be gulled so by a little gipsy, who left off her bib but yesterday!—faith I can't but laugh at thee.
Ger. Faith, then I shall make your mirth (as being too violent) conclude in some little misfortune to you. The fool begins to be tyrannical.
Mons. Ha! ha! ha! poor angry dancing-master! prithee match my Spanish pumps and legs with one of your best and newest sarabands; ha! ha! ha! come—
Ger. I will match your Spanish ear, thus, sir, and make you dance thus. [Strikes and kicks him.
Mons. How! sa! sa! sa! then I'll make you dance thus. [Monsieur draws his sword and runs at him, but Gerrard drawing, he retires.
Hold! hold a little!—[Aside.] A desperate disappointed lover will cut his own throat, then sure he will make nothing of cutting his rival's throat.
Ger. Consideration is an enemy to fighting; if you have a mind to revenge yourself, your sword's in your hand.
Mons. Pray, sir, hold your peace; I'll ne'er take my rival's counsel, be't what 'twill. I know what you would be at; you are disappointed of your mistress, and could hang yourself, and therefore will not fear hanging. But I am a successful lover, and need neither hang for you nor my mistress: nay, if I should kill you, I know I should do you a kindness; therefore e'en live, to die daily with envy of my happiness. But if you will needs die, kill yourself, and be damned for me, I vow and swear.