t,
The poor Sots laughing at 'em. What I have been
It skils not, what I will be is resolv'd on.

_Din._ Why then you'l fight no more?

_Cler._ Such is my purpose.

_Din._ On no occasion?

_Cler._ There you stagger me.
Some kind of wrongs there are which flesh and blood
Cannot endure.

_Din._ Thou wouldst not willingly
Live a protested coward, or be call'd one?

_Cler._ Words are but words.

_Din._ Nor wouldst thou take a blow?

_Cler._ Not from my friend, though drunk, and from an enemy
I think much less.

_Din._ There's some hope of thee left then,
Wouldst thou hear me behind my back disgrac'd?

_Cler._ Do you think I am a rogue? they that should do it
Had better been born dumb.

_Din._ Or in thy presence
See me o'recharg'd with odds?

_Cler._ I'd fall my self first.

_Din._ Would'st thou endure thy Mistris be taken from thee,
And thou sit quiet?

_Cler._ There you touch my honour,
No French-man can endure that.

_Di[n]._ Pl---- upon thee,
Why dost thou talk of Peace then? that dar'st suffer
Nothing, or in thy self, or in thy friend
That is unmanly?

_Cler._ That I grant, I cannot:
But I'le not quarrel with this Gentleman
For wearing stammel Breeches, or this Gamester
For playing a thousand pounds, that owes me nothing;
For this mans taking up a common Wench
In raggs, and lowsie, then maintaining her
Caroach'd in cloth of Tissue, nor five hundred
Of such like toyes, that at no part concern me;
Marry, where my honour, or my friend is questioned,
I have a Sword, and I think I may use it
To the cutting of a Rascals throat, or so,
Like a good Christian.

_Din._ Thou art of a fine Religion,
And rather than we'l make a Schism in friendship
I will be of it: But to be serious,
Thou art acquainted with my tedious love-suit
To fair _Lamira_?

_Cler._ Too well Sir, and remember
Your presents, courtship, that's too good a name,
Your slave-like services, your morning musique;
Your walking three hours in the rain at midnight,
To see her at her window, sometimes laugh'd at,
Sometimes admitted, and vouchsaf'd to kiss
Her glove, her skirt, nay, I have heard, her slippers,
How then you triumph'd?
Here was love forsooth.

_Din._ These follies I deny not,
Such a contemptible thing my dotage made me,
But my reward for this--

_Cler._ As you deserv'd,
For he that makes a goddess of a Puppet,
Merits no other recompence.

_Din._ This day friend,
For thou art so--

_Cler._ I am no flatterer.