_Arn_. Wherefore should I fear Some plot upon my life? 'tis now to me Not worth the keeping. I will follow him, Farewel, wish me good fortune, we shall meet Again I doubt not. _Rut_. Or I'le ne're trust _Jew_ more, [_Exit_ Arnoldo. Nor Christian for his sake--plague o' my stars, How long might I have walkt without a Cloak, Before I should have met with such a fortune? We elder Brothers, though we are proper men, _Ha' not the luck_, ha' too much beard, that spoils us; The smooth Chin carries all: what's here to do now? [_Manet_ Rutilio. _Enter_ Duarte, Alonzo, _and a_ Page. _Dua_. I'le take you as I find you. _Alon_. That were base--you see I am unarm'd. _Dua_. Out with your Bodkin Your Pocket-dagger, your Steletto, out with it, Or by this hand I'le kill you: such as you are Have studied the undoing of poor Cutlers, And made all manly weapons out of fashion: You carry Poniards to murder men, Yet dare not wear a sword to guard your Honour. _Rut_. That's true indeed: upon my life this gallant Is brib'd to repeal banisht swords. _Dua_. I'le shew you The difference now between a _Spanish_ Rapier And your pure Pisa. _Alon_. Let me fetch a sword, Upon mine honour I'le return. _Dua._ Not so Sir. _Alon._ Or lend me yours I pray you, and take this. _Rut._ To be disgrac'd as you are, no I thank you Spight of the fashion, while I live, I am Instructed to go arm'd: what folly 'tis For you that are a man, to put your self Into your enemies mercy. _Dua._ Yield it quickly Or I'le cut off your hand, and now disgrace you, Thus kick and baffle you: as you like this, You may again prefer complaints against me To my Uncle and my Mother, and then think To make it good with a Poniard. _Alon._ I am paid For being of the fashion. _Dua._ Get a sword, Then if you dare redeem your reputation: You know I am easily found: I'le add this to it To put you in mind. _Rut._ You are too insolent, And do insult too much on the advantage Of that which your unequal weapon gave you, More than your valour. _Dua._ This to me, you Peasant? Thou art not worthy of my foot poor fellow, 'Tis scorn, not pity, makes me give thee life: Kneel down and thank me for't: how, do you stare? _Rut._ I have a sword Sir, you shall find, a good one; This is no stabbing guard. _Dua._ Wert thou thrice arm'd, Thus yet I durst attempt thee. _Rut._ Then have at you, [_Fight._ I scorn to take blows. _Dua._ O I am slain. [_Falls._ _Page._ Help! murther, murther! _Alon._ Shift for your self you are dead else, You have kill'd the Governou[r]s Nephew. _Page._ Raise the streets there. _Alon._ If once you are beset you cannot scape, Will you betray your self? _Rut_. Undone for ever. [_Exit_ Rut. _and_ Alonzo. _Enter_ Officers. _1 Off_. Who makes this out-cry? _Page_. O my Lord is murdered; This way he took, make after him, Help help there. [_Exit_ Page. _2 Offi_. 'Tis _Don Duarte_.