_Sir Greg._ Hu hum, ha hum; I han't the spirit now to dash my brains out, Nor the audacity to kill my self, But I could cry my heart out, that's as good, For so't be out, no matter which way it comes, If I can dye with a fillip, or depart At hot-cockles, What's that to any man? If there be so much death that serves my turn there. Every one knows the state of his own body, No Carrion kills a Kite, but then agen There's Cheese will choak a Daw; time I were dead I'faith, If I knew which way without hurt or danger. I am a Maiden-Knight, and cannot look Upon a naked weapon with any modesty, Else 'twould go hard with me, and to complain To Sir _Perfidious_ the old Knight agen, Were to be more abus'd; perhaps he would beat me well, But ne'er believe me. _Enter_ Cuningame. And few Men dye o' beating, that were lost too: Oh, here's my friend, I'll make my moan to him. _Cun._ I cannot tear her memory from my heart, That treads mine down, was ever man so fool'd That profest wit? _Sir Greg._ O _Cuningame_? _Cun._ Sir _Gregory_? The choice, the Victor, the Towns happy Man? _Sir Greg._ 'Snigs, What do'st mean? come I to thee for comfort, and do'st abuse me too? _Cun._ Abuse you? How Sir? With justifying your fortune, and your joyes? _Sir Greg._ Pray hold your hand, Sir, I've been bob'd enough, You come with a new way now; strike me merrily, But when a man's sore beaten o' both sides already, Then the least tap in jest goes to the guts on him; Wilt ha the truth? I'm made the rankest ass That e'er was born to Lordships. _Cun._ What? No Sir? _Sir Greg._ I had not thought my body could a yielded All those foul scurvie names that she has call'd me, I wonder whence she fetcht 'em? _Cun._ Is this credible? _Sir Greg._ She pin'd this Scarf upon me afore her Unckle, But his back turn'd, she curst me so for wearing on't, The very brawn of mine arme has ak'd ever since, Yet in a manner forc't me to wear't still, But hop't I should not long; if good luck serve I should meet one that has more wit and worth Should take it from me, 'twas but lent to me, And sent to him for a token. _Cun._ I conceit it, I know the Man That lies in wait for't, part with't by all means, In any case, you are way-laid about it. _Sir Greg._ How Sir? way-laid? _Cun._ Pox of a Scarf, say I, I prize my friends life 'bove a million on 'em, You shall be rul'd, Sir, I know more than you. _Sir Greg._ If you know more than I, let me be rid on't, 'Lass, 'tis not for my wearing, so she told me. _Cun._ No, no, give me't, the knave shall miss his purpose, And you shall live. _Sir Greg._ I would, as long as I could, Sir. _Cun._ No more replyes, you shall, I'll prevent this, _Pompey_ shall march without it.