Man.  ’Twas that spoil’d him, my Nephew had been happy. 
The Court’s a School indeed, in which some few
Learn vertuous principles, but most forget
What ever they brought thither good and honest. 
Trifling is there in practice, serious actions
Are obsolete and out of use, my Nephew
Had been a happy man, had he ne’re known
What’s there in grace and fashion.

Gui.  I have heard yet,
That while he liv’d in Court, the Emperour
Took notice of his carriage and good parts,
The Grandees did not scorn his company,
And of the greatest Ladies he was held
A compleat Gentleman.

Man.  He indeed Daunc’d well;
A turn o’th’ Toe, with a lofty trick or two,
To argue nimbleness, and a strong back,
Will go far with a Madam:  ’tis most true,
That he’s an excellent Scholar, and he knows it;
An exact Courtier, and he knows that too;
He has fought thrice, and come off still with honour,
Which he forgets not.

Gui.  Nor have I much reason, To grieve his fortune that way.

Man.  You are mistaken,
Prosperity does search a Gentlemans temper,
More than his adverse fortune:  I have known
Many, and of rare parts from their success
In private Duels, rais’d up to such a pride,
And so transform’d from what they were, that all
That lov’d them truly, wish’d they had fallen in them. 
I need not write examples, in your Son
’Tis too apparent; for e’re Don Duarte
Made tryal of his valour, he indeed was
Admired for civil courtesie, but now
He’s swoln so high, out of his own assurance,
Of what he dares do, that he seeks occasions,
Unjust occasions, grounded on blind passion,
Ever to be in quarrels, and this makes him
Shunn’d of all fair Societies.

Gui.  Would it were
In my weak power to help it:  I will use
With my entreaties th’ Authority of a Mother,
As you may of an Uncle, and enlarge it
With your command, as being a Governour
To the great King in Lisbon.

Enter_ Duarte and his Page.

Man.  Here he comes.  We are unseen, observe him.

Dua.  Boy.

Page.  My Lord.

Dua.  What saith the Spanish Captain that I struck, To my bold challenge?

Page.  He refus’d to read it.

Dua.  Why didst not leave it there?

Page.  I did my Lord,
But to no purpose, for he seems more willing
To sit down with the wrongs, than to repair
His honour by the sword; he knows too well,
That from your Lordship nothing can be got
But more blows, and disgraces.

Dua.  He’s a wretch,
A miserable wretch, and all my fury
Is lost upon him; holds the Mask, appointed
I’th’ honour of Hippolyta?

Page.  ’Tis broke off.

Dua.  The reason?