Act. 2. Scaen. 2.
Here's company; 'slid I'll fight then.
How now, Paynims? fighting like two sea-fishes in a map? slaying and killing like horse-leaches? Why my little gallimau∣fry, what Arms and Arts?
Tam Marti, quam Mercurio, I. 'Slife, outbrav'd by a fellow that has no more Page [unnumbered] valour in him then a womans Tailor?
By my fathers Soul, I'll kill him an he were an Army.
Hold! stop! this Colonels spirit's all flame.
'Tis the flame of a flap-dragon then, for 'twill hurt no body.
Mr. Puny, you do me wrong.
What do ye mean bufles?
'Slife, an you hinder me Puny—
Pox take you, kill one another and be hanged then, doe, stab, why don't ye?
At your command Mr. Puny? I'll be forc•d by no man; put up Dogrel, wee'll fight for no mans pleasure but our own.
Agreed, I'll not make another sport by murthering any man though he were a Ti•ker.
Why now you speak like righteous Hom•ncles, ye ha' both great spirits, as big as Indian-whales, for wit and valour a cou∣ple of Phoenixes.
'Tis my fault Puny; I'm the reso∣lutest man if I be but a little heated. Pox take't, I'm a fool for't.
Give me thy hand.
I did not think thou hadst been so valiant, i'faith: I should have killed my self, if I had hurt thee in my fury.
So should I by this hand.
This is rare! up and down like a game at chess;
Why a game at chess more then any other?
A game at chess? why—pox thou'rt a kinde of Poet I confess, but for wit you shall pardon me—ther's as much in Tom Co∣riats shooes. But prithee, why did you two Pythagorians fall out?
A trifle, onely a Mistris.
A pox take her, I woo'd her in an humor onely, I had rather marry a wench of ginger-bread, they're both of a Comple∣xion.
And then her mouth's as wide as a Crocodiles, her kisses devour a man.
Her eyes are like the eyes of a nee∣dle, and her nose pointed like that; I won∣der her face is no cleaner, for those two per∣petually water it: As for her lower parts, blessed are they that live in ignorance.
What an Heliogabalus make you of this wench? would I could see this Barba∣ra Pyramidum.
Hang her, she looks like a gentlewo∣man upon the top of a ballad.
Shavers, who i the divels name would you guess to be my Mistris?
Some w•nch at a red lattice.
Some beast that stincks worse then Thames-street.
And looks like a shoulder of mutton stufft with parsly.
'Faith guess who.
'Tis impossible among so many whores.
'Faith Tabitha, none but gentle Mistris Tabitha.
We shall have him turn Brownist now, and read Comments upon the Revela∣tions.
Thou hast hit it Dogrel: I'le put my self into a rare garbe; Buffe, thou must off, tru•y Buffe thou must.
'Slid, a good humour; I could find in my heart to change religion too.
Pox! no body will change with me, I'm sure. But canst thou put off swearing with Buffe? canst thou abstain in the middle of long grace from crying a plague upon him, the me•ts cold? canst thou repeat scripture enough to make a Puritan? I'me sure for understanding thou'lt be like enough to any of 'um.
Let me alone, I'le deal with no oath above gods fatlikins, or by my truly: exclaim upon the sickness of drinking healths, and call the Players rogues, sing psalms, hear lectures; and if I chance to preach my self, woe be to the act, the object, the use, and applica•ion.
Thou art an everlasting stinker Co∣lonel, 'tis a most potent humour, ther's mu∣stard in't, it bits i'the nose.
Dog•el, take heed of swearing before Tabitha.
If I look not as grave as a Judge upon the bench, let me be hanged for't.
Come away Physitians; 'slid I'le be of some Religion ere•t be long too.