Pet. Thomasin, leave this pace & take me with you[124].  My Lord loves your Lady, yet I heare she is this night betrothed to the Prince of France:  I love you & shall I lose you?  No:  I hate prolixity; in a word, the end is Ile mary you.

Tho.  Prety, as God save me!  What will Captaine Bowyer say to that if he should know it?

Bow.—­A good Rogue, by Jesu!

Pet.  Bowyer a Captayne? a Capon, a button mould, a lame haberdine[125], a red beard Sprat, a Yellowhammer, a bow case, a very Jackdaw with his toung slit.

Bow.—­Zounds, what a Philistine is this! what a dictionary of proper names hath the Rogue got together! heart, his toung crawles as fast as the cheese doth in Germany.  Ile pearce you for this, you Lobster.

Pet.  Bowyer? mordu! futra[126] for him! and that sowre crab do but leere at thee I shall squeeze him to Vargis[127].

Bow.  And you squeeze me I may haps grow saucy with you, you whorson burnd Pudding pye, you drye Parsnip.  Kisse me, Thomasin.  So, dare you stand to your word now and squeeze me.

Pet.  Stumps, I challenge thee for this indignity.  Bowyer, I will gyrd my selfe with thy guts.  I am a souldiour and a Captayne.

Bow.  Captayne? s’hart, and thou hast under thy charge any other then Pigmies I am a Gogmagog.  Dost thou heare, sowgelder? and I do not with sixe Cranes (wel marshald) overrunne thee and thy hundred and fifty, say Dick Bowyer’s a coward.

Pet.  For that word draw.

Tho.  Hold, Gentlemen.

Bow.  Peace, good Thomasin, silence, sweet socket [sucket?].  Peter, dost see this sword? this sword kild Sarlaboys, that was one Rogue:  now it shall kill thee, that’s two Rogues.  Whorson puttock[128], no garbage serve you but this? have at you!

    As they fight enters Pembrooke.

Pem.  Who’s this at enmity within our Camps?  What!  Bowyer and the servant to great Burbon?  Both sheathe your weapons:  by our martiall law This act is death.

Bow.  Ile be hangd then.  Dost thou heare, noble Generall?  Dicke Bowyer knowes what belongs to service:  we did not draw of any malice, by this element of iron & steele, but to measure which of our swords were longest.—­Ile save you for once, you Sarazen, because I see youle hang scurvily:  but the next time—­

Pem.  Good Captayne Bowyer, let our English troops Keepe a strong watch to night:  my throbbing heart, Like to a Scritchowle in the midnight houre, Bodes some black scene of mischiefe imminent.

Bow.  Never feare, Generall:  if Julius Caesar rise up against us, e’re he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs.  Ile to the trenches:  come, Thomasin.—­Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as pyde colourd as the Rainbow.  By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me not.
        [Exeunt.