INGEN. Follow what may, I am resolv'd, dear brother. This monster valour, that doth feed on men, Groans in me for my reputation. This charge I give thee, too--if I do die, Never to part from the young boy which late I entertain'd, but love him for my sake. And for my mistress, the Lady Honour, Whom to deceive I have deceiv'd myself, If she be dead, pray God I may give up My life a sacrifice on her brother's sword; But if thou liv'st to see her, gentle brother: If I be slain, tell her I died, because I had transgressed against her worthy love-- This sword is not well-mounted; let's see thine. _Enter_ MAID, _like a footboy_. MAID. Your staying, sir, is in vain, for my Lord Proudly, Just at his taking horse to meet you here, At Seldom's suit (the citizen) was arrested Upon an action of two hundred pounds. I saw it, sir; 'tis true. INGEN. O scurvy lord! It had been a cleanlier shift than this to have had It hinder'd by command, he being a lord. But I will find him. _Enter_ LORD PROUDLY. PROUDLY. You see, valiant sir, I have got loose For all your stratagem. O rogue! are you there? [PROUDLY _stabs his sister_. INGEN. Most ignoble lord! [INGEN _stabs_ PROUDLY _in the left arm_. PROUDLY. Coward! thou didst this, That I might be disabled for the fight, Or that thou mightst have some excuse to shun me, But 'tis my left arm thou hast lighted on. I have no second: here are three of you. If all do murder me, your consciences Will more than hang you, damn you. Come, prepare! INGEN. Brother, walk off, and take the boy away. Is he hurt much? BRO. Nothing, or very little. [PROUDLY _thrusts the boy out_. INGEN. I'll bind your wound up first: your loss of blood May sooner make you faint. PROUDLY. Ingen, thou art A worthy gentleman: for this courtesy, Go to, I'll save thy life. Come on, sir! [_A pass or two._ I'll cut your codpiece point, sir, with this thrust, And then down go your breeches. INGEN. Your lordship's merry. [_Pass._ I had like to have spoil'd your cutwork band. _Enter_ MAID, _like a footboy, running;_ BROTHER _after her;_ MAID _kneels betwixt them_. MAID. O master, hold your hand! my lord, hold yours, Or let your swords meet in this wretched breast! Yet you are both well; what blood you have lost, Give it as for the injury you did, And now be friends. PROUDLY. 'Sheart! 'tis a loving rogue. INGEN. Kind boy, stand up: 'tis for thy wound he bleeds; My wrong is yet unsatisfied. PROUDLY. Hence! away! It is a sister's loss that whets my sword.