Mac.  How mean’st thou?

Pike.  Let my speech breed no offence:  I thinke they would prove pulletts.

Gyr.  Dar’st thou fight With any one of these our Spanish pulletts?

Pike.  What heart have I to fight when tis beaten flatt
To earth with sad afflictions? can a prisoner
Glory in playing the Fencer? my life’s at stake
Allready; can I putt it in for more? 
Our army was some 14000 men
Of which more than 12000 had spirits so high
Mine never shall come neere them:  would some of them
Were here to feed your expectations! 
Yet, silly as I am, having faire pardon
From all your Graces and your Greatnesses,
Ile try if I have strength in this chayned arme
To breake a rapier.

Mac.  Knock off all his gyves; And he that has a stomacke for Spaines honour To combate with this Englishman, appeare.

Pike.  May he be never calld an Englishman That dares not looke a divell in the face, [One stepps forth.  Come he in face of man, come how he can.

Mac.  Your name?

Tia. Tiago.

All.  Well done Tiago.

Mac.  Let drums beate all the time they fight.

Lady.  I pray for thee.

Gent.  And I.

      [They fight:  Pike disarmes & tripps him downe.

Pike.  Onely a Devonshire hugg, sir:—­at your feete I lay my winnings.

Tia.  Diable!

[Exit, biting his thumb[44]; the soldiers stampe.

Gyr.  Wilt venter on oanother?

Pike.  I beseech you To pardon me, and taske me to no more.

Alq.  Come, come, one more; looke you, here’s a young Cockerell[45]
Comes crowing into the pitt.
                                 [Another steps in.

All.  Prithee, fight with him.

Pike.  I’me in the Lyon’s gripe & to gett from him There’s but one way; that’s death.

Mac. English, What say you? will you fight or no?

Pike.  Ile fight.

All.  Give ’em roome! make way there!

Pike.  Ile fight till every Joynt be cutt in pieces
To please such brave spectators; yes Ile fight
While I can stand, be you but pleasd, my Lords,
The noble Dukes here, to allow me choice
Of my owne Country weapon.

All.  What?

Pike.  A Quarter staffe,—­this, were the head off.

Mac.  Off with the head, and roome!  How dost thou like this Spaniard?

Pike.  Well:  he’s welcome. 
Here’s my old trusty frend:  are there no more? 
One! what, but one? why, I shall make no play,
No sport before my princely Judges with one. 
More sackes to the Mill! come, another! what, no more?