1.

  Mines off my Lord.

2.

  I beseech your Lordship stay a little, my strap’s tied to my
  codpiece point:  Now when you please.

Bac.

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

Bess.

  I am verie well, I humblie thanke your Lordship.

Bac.

  Whats that in your pocket slave, my key you mungrell? thy
  buttocks cannot be so hard, out with’t quicklie.

2.

  Here tis Sir, a small piece of Artillerie, that a gentleman a
  deare friend of your Lordships sent me with to get it mended Sir;
  for it you marke, the nose is somewhat loose.

Bac.

  A friend of mine you rascall, I was never wearier of doing
  nothing, then kicking these two foote-bals.

Ser.

  Heres a good cudgell Sir.

Bac.

  It comes too late; I am wearie, prethee doe thou beate um.

2.

  My Lord this is foule play ifaith, to put a fresh man upon us;
  Men, are but men.

Bac.

That jest shall save your bones, up with your rotten regiment, and be gone; I had rather thresh, then be bound to kicke these raskals, till they cride hold:  Bessus you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit.  Farewell, as you like this, pray visit mee againe, twill keepe me in good breath.

2.

  Has a divellish hard foote, I never felt the like.

1.

  Nor I, and yet Ime sure I ha felt a hundred.

2.

  If he kicke thus ith dog-daies, he will be drie founderd:  what
  cure now Captaine, besides oyle of bayes?

Bess.

  Why well enough I warrant you, you can goe.

2.

  Yes, God be thanked; but I feele a shrewd ach, sure he has sprang
  my huckle bone.

1.

  I ha lost a haunch.

Bess.

  A little butter friend, a little butter; butter and parselie is a
  soveraigne matter:  probatum est.

1.

  Captaine, we must request your hands now to our honours.

Bess.

  Yes marrie shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are
  valiant to our selves, and theres an end.

1.

Nay, then we must be valiant; O my ribbes.

2.

O my small guts, a plague upon these sharpe toe’d shooes, they
are murderers.

Exeunt.

Enter Arbaces with his Sword drawne.

Arb.

It is resolv’d, I bore it whilst I could,
I can no more, Hell open all thy gates,
And I will thorough them; if they be shut,
Ile batter um, but I will find the place
Where the most damn’d have dwelling; ere I end,
Amongst them all they shall not have a sinne,
But I may call it mine:  I must beginne
With murder of my friend, and so goe on
To an incestuous ravishing, and end
My life and sinnes with a forbidden blow
Upon my selfe.