A King, and No King Part 43

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 Lords.h.i.+p 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 Lords.h.i.+p.

_Bac_.

What's that in your pocket, hurts my Toe you Mungril? Thy b.u.t.tocks 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 Lords.h.i.+ps 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-b.a.l.l.s.

_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.

_2 Sword_.

H'as a devilish hard foot, I never felt the like.

_1 Sword_.

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

_2 Sword_.

If he kick thus i'th' Dog-daies, he will be dry foundred: what cure now Captain besides Oyl of Baies?

_Bes_.

Why well enough I warrant you, you can go.

_2 Sword_.

Yes, heaven be thanked; but I feel a shrowd ach, sure h'as sprang my huckle-bone.

_1 Sword_.

I ha' lost a hanch.

_Bes_.

A little b.u.t.ter, friend a little b.u.t.ter, b.u.t.ter and pa.r.s.eley and a soveraign matter: _probatum est_.

_2 Sword_.

Captain we must request your hand now to our honours.

_Bes_.

Yes marry shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are valiant to our selves, and there's an end.

_1 Sword_.

Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs.

_2 Sword_.

O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are murtherers.

[_Exeunt clear_.