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

1 Sw. O’ this side, good my lord.

Bac. Off with your swords;
For if you hurt my foot, I’ll have you flead,
You rascals.

1 Sw. Mine’s off, my lord.

[They take off their swords.

2 Sw. 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 mungrel?
Thy buttocks cannot be so hard; out with’t quickly.

2 Sw. [Takes out a pistol.] Here ’tis, sir; a small piece of artillery,
That a gentleman, a dear friend of your lordship’s,
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 nothing,
Than kicking these two foot- balls.

Enter Servant

Serv. Here’s a good cudgel, sir.

Bac. It comes too late; I am weary; pr’ythee,
Do thou beat them.

2 Sw. 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 begone.—I had rather thresh than be bound to kick these rascals, till they cried, “ho!” Bessus, you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit.—Farewell! as you like this, pray visit me again; ’twill keep me in good health.

[Exit.

2 Sw. He has a devilish hard foot; I never felt the like.

1 Sw. Nor I; and yet, I am sure, I have felt a hundred.

2 Sw. If he kick thus i’ the dog-days, he will be dry-foundred.
What cure now, captain, besides oil of bays?

Bes. Why, well enough, I warrant you; you can go?

2 Sw. Yes, Heaven be thank’d! but I feel a shrewd ache;
Sure, he’s sprang my huckle-bone.

1 Sw. I ha’ lost a haunch.

Bes. A little butter, friend, a little butter;
Butter and parsley is a sovereign matter:

Probatum est.

2 Sw. Captain, we must request
Your hand now to our honours.