Your Lordship must understand we are no men o’th’ Law, that take
  pay for our opinions:  it is sufficient we have clear’d our
  friend.

Bac.

  Yet there is something due, which I as toucht in Conscience will
  discharge Captain; I’le pay this Rent for you.

Bes.

  Spare your self my good Lord; my brave friends aim at nothing but
  the vertue.

Bac.

  That’s but a cold discharge Sir for the pains.

2 Sword.

  O Lord, my good Lord.

Bac.

  Be not so modest, I will give you something.

Bes.

  They shall dine with your Lordship, that’s sufficient.

Bac.

  Something in hand the while, you Rogues, you Apple-squires:  do
  you come hither with your botled valour, your windy froth, to
  limit out my beatings?

1 Sword.

  I do beseech your Lordship.

2 Sword.

  O good Lord.

Bac.

  S’foot-what a heavy of beaten slaves are here! get me a Cudgel
  sirra, and a tough one.

2 Sword.

  More of your foot, I do beseech your Lordship.

Bac.

  You shall, you shall dog, and your fellow-beagle.

1 Sword.

  O’ this side good my Lord.

Bac.

  Off with your swords, for if you hurt my foot, I’le have you
  flead you Rascals.

1 Sword.

  Mine’s off my Lord.

2 Sword.

  I beseech your Lordship stay a little, my strap’s tied to my Cod
  piece-point:  now when you please.

Bac.

  Captain these are your valiant friends, you long for a little
  too?

Bes.

  I am very well, I humbly thank your Lordship.

Bac.

  What’s that in your pocket, hurts my Toe you Mungril?  Thy
  Buttocks cannot be so hard, out with it quickly.

2 Sword.

  Here ’tis Sir, a small piece of Artillery, that a Gentleman a
  dear friend of your Lordships sent me with, to get it mended Sir,
  for if you mark, the nose is somewhat loose.

Bac.

  A friend of mine you Rascal?  I was never wearier of doing any
  thing, than kicking these two Foot-balls.

  Enter Servant.

Serv.

  Here is a good Cudgel Sir.

Bac.

  It comes too late I’me weary, pray thee do thou beat them.

2 Sword.

  My Lord, this is foul play i’faith, to put a fresh man upon us,
  men are but men Sir.

Bac.

That jest shall save your bones; Captain, Rally up your rotten Regiment and be gone:  I had rather thrash than be bound to kick these Rascals, till they cry’d ho; Bessus you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit.  Farewel, as you like this, pray visit me again, ’twill keep me in good health.

[Exit Bac.