Ferd.  I, upon me. 
Dally not, Pembrooke; I am bent to fight
And that with thee for the best blood thou bearst.

Pem.  You have some reason for this resolution.

Ferd.  My will.

Pem.  A sorry argument to kill your friend. 
I must have better reason then your will
Or Ile not draw upon my Ferdinand. 
Our love is older then of one dayes growth;
A yeres continuance hath united us. 
Have we not made an enterchange of othes,
Sworne love to one another twenty times,
Confirmd that friendship by society,
Encreasde it with the simpathy of mind,
Making one pleasure pleasure unto both? 
And shall this bond be broken upon will?

Ferd.  Then youle not draw?

Pem.  Yes, neerer to thy person In friendly sort to embrace thee, Ferdinand.

Ferd.  Thou art a coward and thou dar’st not fight.

Pem.  Thou knowst the contrary, for we have fought At every weapon to approve our skill.

Ferd.  Goe to, you are a villayne and a coward, And by the royall bloud that gave me life Ile kill thee, Pembrooke, though thou do not draw.

Pem.  Kill me? thou wilt not wrong thine honour so?

Ferd.  Zounds but I will; &, traitor, take thou that.
                                         [Wounds him.

Pem.  Wound me so desperately? nay, then, Ile draw,
Not to offend but to defend my selfe. 
Now I perceyve it is my blood thou seekst. 
Witnesse, you heavens and all you gracious powers
That stand auspicious to this enterprise,
That Pembrooke drawes forth an unwilling sword.

Ferd.  Why, so; now manfully defend thy selfe.

Pem.  Another wound? then Pembrook, rowse thy spirit
And beare no longer with this haire-braynd man. 
Yet (Ferdinand) resolve me of the cause
That moves thee to this unkind enterprise,
And if I satisfie thee not in words
This double wound shall please thee with my bloud;
Nay, with my sword Ile make a score of wounds
Rather then want of bloud divorce thy love.

Ferd.  I hate thee deadly and I seeke thy life: 
What other reason, Pembrook, wouldst thou have? 
Prepare, prepare, in this conflict to show
Thou art a knight and canst o’recome thy foe.

Pem.  And if I spare thee not, impute the cause To thine owne rashnes and mine aking wounds.

    Fight, and hurt eche other; both fall downe as dead.

Ferd.  I hope I have slayne thee.

Pem.  Oh I feare thy life.  How fares my Ferdinand?

Ferd.  What? liv’st thou yet?  Then my fare is ill.

Pem.  I am markt for death, I feele a generall fayntnesse through my lymmes; Expence of bloud will soone expend my life.

Ferd.  The like debility my joynts doe feele.