_Bow_. And you squeeze me I may haps grow saucy with you, you whorson burnd Pudding pye, you drye Parsnip. Kisse me, Thomasin. So, dare you stand to your word now and squeeze me. _Pet_. Stumps, I challenge thee for this indignity. Bowyer, I will gyrd my selfe with thy guts. I am a souldiour and a Captayne. _Bow_. Captayne? s'hart, and thou hast under thy charge any other then Pigmies I am a Gogmagog. Dost thou heare, sowgelder? and I do not with sixe Cranes (wel marshald) overrunne thee and thy hundred and fifty, say Dick Bowyer's a coward. _Pet_. For that word draw. _Tho_. Hold, Gentlemen. _Bow_. Peace, good Thomasin, silence, sweet socket [sucket?]. Peter, dost see this sword? this sword kild Sarlaboys, that was one Rogue: now it shall kill thee, that's two Rogues. Whorson puttock[128], no garbage serve you but this? have at you! _As they fight enters Pembrooke_. _Pem_. Who's this at enmity within our Camps? What! Bowyer and the servant to great Burbon? Both sheathe your weapons: by our martiall law This act is death. _Bow_. Ile be hangd then. Dost thou heare, noble Generall? Dicke Bowyer knowes what belongs to service: we did not draw of any malice, by this element of iron & steele, but to measure which of our swords were longest.--Ile save you for once, you Sarazen, because I see youle hang scurvily: but the next time-- _Pem_. Good Captayne Bowyer, let our English troops Keepe a strong watch to night: my throbbing heart, Like to a Scritchowle in the midnight houre, Bodes some black scene of mischiefe imminent. _Bow_. Never feare, Generall: if Julius Caesar rise up against us, e're he do my Lord any wrong, zounds Ile be cut smaller then pot-hearbs. Ile to the trenches: come, Thomasin.--Leere not, Lobster, lest I thump that russeting[129] face of yours with my sword hilt till that it looke as pyde colourd as the Rainbow. By Jesu, Ile do it, and therefore follow me not. [_Exeunt_. _Pem_. Why should this loade of griefe lye on my heart With such a ponderous waight? I know no cause, Unlesse it be by thinking on the wrong My friend receyves in the unmatched love Which Katherine beares me: yet my fayth is sound, And like a solid Rock shall check her teares. Katharine loves me; yet, for my friends delight, Pembrooke will hate her love and flye her sight. [_Exit_. [SCENE 2.] _Enter Burbon, Navar, Philip, Bellamira, Rodoricke, and attendants_. _Bur_. Navar, you sprinckle me with foule reproch And dimme the luster of our royall name With colours of dishonour. _Nav_. Heare me, Burbon. _Bur_. What words can satisfy so great a wrong? Have you not, with consent of all your Lords, Promis'd your daughter to this generous prince? _Nav_. Their true love forst us to it. _Bur_. True love? 'tis faynd. _Phil_. Ha, Burbon! _Bel_. Gentle Philip-- _Phil_. With my sword Ile prove my love unfayned, thee a false Lord.