The guardian, a comedie acted before Prince Charls, His Highness at Trinity-Colledg in Cambridge, upon the twelfth of March, 1641
Cowley, Abraham, 1618-1667.

Scaen. 1.

Cutter, Dogrel.
Cut.

Come on, Dogrel, now will I cut your throat.

Dog.

Youll be hang'd first.

Cut.

No, by this light.

Dog.

You'll be hang'd after then.

Cut.

I'll slice thee into steaks.

Dog.

I believe indeed thou art so hungry, thou couldst feed like a Cannibal.

Cut.

No, thou'lt be a dish for the devil; he'll dress thee at his own fire. You call'd me Coward: hadst thou as many lives as are in Plutarch, I'd make an end of 'um. (I must daunt him, for fear he should fight with me.) I will not leave so much blood in thee as will wet my nail: and for thy flesh, I'll mangle it in such manner, that the Crowes shall not know whether it were a mans body or no.

Dog.
(He was once a Coward, and I ne∣ver heard yet of his reformation)
Hear, thou altitonant Ioue, and Muses three.
(Muses? a plague upon 'um I meant Furies.)
Hear, thou altitonant Ioue, and Furies three.
Cut.
Nay then
Leap from the leathern dungeon of my sheath,
Thou Durindana brave.
(Will nothing do?) Come on, miscre∣ant.
They draw.
Dog.
Do, do, strike if thou dar'st.
Cut.
Coward, I'll give thee the advantage of the first push.
Dog.
I scorn to take any thing of thee I.
Cut.
Thou hadst better eat up thy mothers soul, then touch me.
Dog.
If thou wilt not strike first, take thy life.
Cut.
I had rather die then give the first blowe, since thou hast said it.
Dog.
I see this quarrel, Cutter, will come to a quart of wine: shall's go?
Cut.
How rash is anger! had not reason check'd me,
I should have kill'd my Poet for a woman,
A very woman. Let's sheath, Dogrel