rm[e]d me to vindicate your honour.

_Sis_. My honour?

_De_. This is but the first of my valour in your cause;
If you affect these Monuments ile make
You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave
My Service with this sword: if he provoke me
To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of
And bring that wo' me to present the next.

_Sis_. Whose hand, deare servant?

_De_. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not
Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I
Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d,
And I in tyme may merit to be cald
The darling of your virgin thoughts.

_Sis_. I pray stay.
My name traduc'd? who was so impudent?
Do me the grace to let me know on whome
Your valour had been exercis'd.

_De_. Why, the formall thing _Courtwell_; I would [not] call him
Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him
You need no other witnes but his sword
With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie.

[_She shutts the Doore_.

_Sis_. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore,
Because I meane before you goe to have
A satisfaction for the base injury
You ha done me.

_De_. I done you injurie!

_Sis_. Not that I value _Courtwell_, whome you would
Pretend has been to saucy with my honour;
But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should
Depend upon your sword or vindication,
Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume
Against your bulke in folio.

_Cou_. Excellent wench!

_De_. I was your Champion, lady.

_Sis_. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it.
Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme
A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants
And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants
They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles,
Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes
To the _Bankeside_ and save the Beares a whipping
That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging
A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too.
Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you.

_De_. At that weapon?

_Sis_. This, and no other.

_De_. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword
In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes
May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave
The Lillies to lament the rude divorce.
But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy,
My rage more nimble then [the] _Median_ shaft
Should flie into his bosome, and your eye
Change anger into smiles to see me fight
And cut him into a ragged staffe.

_Enter Courtwell_.

_Cou_. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, w