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, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword.

De.  Ha you an ambush, Lady?  Ile cry out murder.  Is two to one faire play?

Cou.  Let me cut one legg of, to marre his running.

De.  Hold, let me speake.

Cou.  What canst thou say for thy baseness?

De.  Some men loves wit, and can without dishonour
Endure a jeast.  Why, do you thinke I know not
You were here, and but obscur’d to see my humour. 
I came to waite upon you with your sword, I.

Cou.  How came you by’te? confesse before this Lady.

De.  Dost thinke her witts so limber to believe
I could compell it from thee.  Twas a trick,
A meere conceipt of mirth; thou sha’t ha mine. 
Dost thinke I stand upon a sword?  Ile gi’ thee
A case of Pistolls when we come to London;
And shoot me when I love thee not.  Pox ont,
Thou apprehende’st me well enough.