+Cor.+ I could not think it fit to let him come; For one of such a spirit would ne'er brook The sight of these had done him these affronts And's better that a business of this nature, Especially 'twixt persons of such quality, Should be compos'd, if it were possible, By th' mediation of some chosen friends, Than brought t' a public trial of the law; Or, which is worse, some barbarous revenge. +Don C.+ This fellow, if I am not much[68] mistaken, [_Looking upon +Diego+._ Is Don Octavio's man. +Cor.+ Who do you belong to, friend? +Diego.+ To nobody, sir. +Cor.+ Do not you serve? +Diego.+ Yes, sir; but my master is not himself. +Cor.+ Take his sword from him, sergeant. [_The +Sergeant+ goes to lake away his sword._ +Diego.+ Diego, disarm'd by any other hand Than by his own? Know, friend, it is a weapon Of such dire execution, that I dare not Give it up but to the hands of justice. [_The +Corregidor+ receives the sword, and gives it to the hands of his +Sergeants+._ Pray call for't, sir, as soon as you come home, And hang't up in your hall, then underwrite, This is bold Diego's sword. O, may it be Ever from rust, as 'tis from slaughter, free! +Cor.+ Thou art a fellow of a pleasant humour. +Diego.+ Faith, sir, I never pain myself for love, Or fame, or riches; nor do I pretend To that great subtlety of sense, to feel Before I'm hurt; and for the most part I keep myself out of harm's way. +Don C.+ The definition of a philosopher! +Cor.+ Come, leave your fooling, sirrah. Where's your master? +Diego.+ The only way to leave my fooling, sir, Is to leave my master; for, without doubt, Whoever has but the least grain of wit Would never serve a lover militant: He had better wait upon a mountebank, And be run through the body twice a week To recommend his balsam. +Cor.+ This fellow is an original. +Diego.+ But of so ill a hand, I am not worth The hanging up, sir, in my master's room, Amongst the worst of your collection. _Enter +Sergeants+, with two Footmen and two Maid-servants._ +Ser.+ An't please your worship, we have search'd the house From the cellars to the garrets, and these Are all the living cattle we can find. +Cor.+ Friends, take a special care of that same varlet And the waiting-woman: we'll find a way To make them tell the truth, I warrant you. +Flo.+ O Diego! must we be prisoners together? +Diego.+ Why, that's not so bad as the bands of wedlock, Flora. +Cor.+ Come, let's away; but whither to convey her? To her own house certainly were not fit, Because of her incensed brother.