RAY. Not till you conquer me: which if my arm Be not by witchcraft robb'd of his late strength, Shall spin your labour to an ample length. MACH. Upon him, then. GIO. Odds is dishonourable combat: my lads, Lets one to one; I am for the Moor. ALER. Thee! FUL. Tailor, you are too saucy. GIO. Saucy? ALER. Untutor'd groom, mechanic slave! GIO. You have protection by the governor's presence, Else, my plum'd estridges,[23] 'tis not your feathers, More weighty than your beads, should stop My vengeance, but I'd text my wrong In bloody characters upon your pamper'd flesh. FUL. You would? GIO. By heaven, I would! FUL. You'd be advis'd, and render up your life A sacrifice to patience. GIO. Musk-cat, I'd make your civet worship stink First in your perfumed buff. ALER. Phlegmatic slave! GIO. Bloodless commanders. FUL. } PAN. } How? ALER. } GIO. So. FUL. } PAN. } Let's reward his boldness. ALER. } [_They fall upon_ GIOVANNO. MACH. Whence this rashness? RAY. Bless'd occasion! let's on 'em. [_The French whisper. The French fly upon 'em: they turn to their Guard, and beat 'em off._ ACT III., SCENE 1. _Enter_ MACHIAVEL, FULGENTIO, PANDOLPHO, ALERZO, GIOVANNO, _with_ RAYMOND _prisoner, and the rest of the_ TAILORS. ALL THE TAI. A tailor, a tailor, a tailor! GIO. Raymond, y' are now my prisoner: Blind chance has favour'd, where your thoughts Had hope she meant to ruin From our discord, which Heaven has made victorious, You meant to strike a harmony should glad you. ALER. 'Tis not to be borne: a tailor! [_Whisper._ FUL. 'Twas an affront galls me to think on't: besides, His saucy valour might have ruin'd all Our forward fortunes, had the French been stronger: Let him be banish'd. MACH. It shall be so; My fears are built on grounds, Stronger than Atlas' shoulders: this same tailor Retains a spirit like the lost Antonio; Whose sister we will banish in pretence Of love to justice; 'tis a good snare to trap The vulgar hearts: his and her goods, to gild My lawless doings, I'll give the poor, whose tongues Are i' their bellies; which being full, Is tipp'd with heartless prayers; but, empty, A falling planet is less dangerous; they'll down To hell for curses. You tailor! GIO. My lord. MACH. Deliver up your prisoner. GIO. Y' are obey'd. MACH. So: now we command, on forfeit of thy life, You be not seen on any ground Our master's title circles within three days: Such a factious spirit we must not nourish; Lest, like the fabl'd serpent, [once] grown warm In your conceited worth, you sting Your country's breast, that nurs'd your valour. GIO. This my reward? ALER. More than thy worth deserves. GIO. Pomander-box, thou liest! FUL. Go purge yourself; your country vomits you. GIO. Slaves, y' are not worth my anger. FUL. Go vent your spleen 'mongst satires; pen a Pamphlet, and call't the "Scourge of Greatness." ALER. Or "Spain's Ingratitude."