_Bow_. Zounds, you Rogue, doe not you know that? Ile tell you: s'hart and I lye, call me Jebuzite. Once as I was fighting in S. Georges fields, and blind Cupid seeing me and taking me for some valiant _Achilles_, he tooke his shaft and shot me right into the left heele; and ever since _Dick Bowyer_ hath beene lame. But my heart is as sound as a bell: heart of Oake, spirit, spirit! Lieutenant, discharge _Nod_ and let _Cricket_ stand Sentronell till I come. _Lieu_. He shall, Captayne. _Bow_. On afore! strike Drum, march soldiers, keep your place, Nod. Lusty, my harts, for the honour of England and our brave General the Earle of Pembrooke! [_Exeunt soldiers_.] So I have discharg'd my selfe of these. Hot shot![121] now to my love. Some may say the tale of Venus loving Mars is a fable, but he that is a true soldier and a Gent. as Dick Bowyer is, & he do not love some varlet or other, zounds he is worse then a gaping Oyster without liquor. There's a pretty sweet fac't mother[122] that waits on the princesse that I have some mind to; but a whorson _Architophel_, a parasite, a rogue, one whose face looks worse then a Tailors cushen of old shreds and colours, zounds like a weavers leg in an old ditch feeding horseleaches; & this trotter is my ryval & loves _Thomasin_: his name is _Peter de Lions_, but s'hart (I will not sweare neither) if I do not turne Rich. _Cor de Lion_ with him, if I do not teare out his heart and eate it with mustard, let him say Dick Bowyer's a Mackarell. Yonder hee comes with my property hand in hand. Zounds! I say nothing, but ile heare what they say and determine afterward. _Enter Peter and Thomasin_. _Pet_. Thomasin, you know me, I hate prolixity: in a word, my humour is thus, I love. _Bow_.--And I do not spoyle that humor, so-- _Pet_. Your answere compendiously & avoyd prolixity. _Tom_. Mary muffe[123]! by Jesu I scorne to humble the least part about me to give answere to such a trothing question: as I live it joults mine eares worse in hearing then the princes coach on a broken cawsey. _Pet_. _Thomasin_, leave this pace & take me with you[124]. My Lord loves your Lady, yet I heare she is this night betrothed to the Prince of France: I love you & shall I lose you? No: I hate prolixity; in a word, the end is Ile mary you. _Tho_. Prety, as God save me! What will Captaine Bowyer say to that if he should know it? _Bow_.--A good Rogue, by Jesu! _Pet_. Bowyer a Captayne? a Capon, a button mould, a lame haberdine[125], a red beard Sprat, a Yellowhammer, a bow case, a very Jackdaw with his toung slit. _Bow_.--Zounds, what a Philistine is this! what a dictionary of proper names hath the Rogue got together! heart, his toung crawles as fast as the cheese doth in Germany. Ile pearce you for this, you Lobster. _Pet_. Bowyer? _mordu! futra_[126] for him! and that sowre crab do but leere at thee I shall squeeze him to Vargis[127].