_Sis_. Sir, do me but one favour, ile recant My Love, I wonot have so much as one Good thought on you; I will neglect you, sir, Nay and abuse you, too, if you obscure But for three minutes. _Cou_. Ile have patience so long. _Sis_. Admitt him.--I wilbe reveng'd o' somebody.-- Now, Sir. _Enter Device_. _De_. I ha brought you a weapon, Lady. _La_. Mee, what to do, Sir? _De_. Tis Justice I present it to your feete Whose love arm[e]d me to vindicate your honour. _Sis_. My honour? _De_. This is but the first of my valour in your cause; If you affect these Monuments ile make You up an Armorie; meane tyme receave My Service with this sword: if he provoke me To fight with him agen, Ile cut his hand of And bring that wo' me to present the next. _Sis_. Whose hand, deare servant? _De_. He is not worth the nameing; las, this does not Deserve your knowledge. Only thinke what I Dare do when your bright name is question[e]d, And I in tyme may merit to be cald The darling of your virgin thoughts. _Sis_. I pray stay. My name traduc'd? who was so impudent? Do me the grace to let me know on whome Your valour had been exercis'd. _De_. Why, the formall thing _Courtwell_; I would [not] call him Gentleman; but that I ha baffled him You need no other witnes but his sword With that fine holliday hilt, Ladie. [_She shutts the Doore_. _Sis_. Looke you, sir, I ha made fast the Doore, Because I meane before you goe to have A satisfaction for the base injury You ha done me. _De_. I done you injurie! _Sis_. Not that I value _Courtwell_, whome you would Pretend has been to saucy with my honour; But, cause I scorne to owne a goodnes should Depend upon your sword or vindication, Ile fight with you my selfe in this small vollume Against your bulke in folio. _Cou_. Excellent wench! _De_. I was your Champion, lady. _Sis_. Ide rather have no fame then heare thee name it. Thou fight for a Ladies honour and disarme A gentleman, thou! fence before the pageants And make roome for the porters, when like Elephants They carry once a yeare the Citty Castles, Or goe a feasting with the Drum and foot boyes To the _Bankeside_ and save the Beares a whipping That day thou art cudgeld for thy saucy challenging A sergeant with one eye, that was to much too. Come, Sir, I meane to have a bout with you. _De_. At that weapon? _Sis_. This, and no other. _De_. Ile rather bleed to death then lift a sword In my defence, whose inconsiderate brightnes May fright the Roses from your cheeke and leave The Lillies to lament the rude divorce. But were a Man to dare me, and your enemy, My rage more nimble then [the] _Median_ shaft Should flie into his bosome, and your eye Change anger into smiles to see me fight And cut him into a ragged staffe. _Enter Courtwell_. _Cou_. I can hold no longer. You have gott a stomack, Sir, with running; ile try how you can eate a sword. _De_. Ha you an ambush, Lady? Ile cry out murder. Is two to one faire play?