Cob. An't like your worship, I am come to crave the peace of your worship. Clem. Of me, knave! Peace of me, knave! Did I ever hurt thee, or threaten thee, or wrong thee, ha? Cob. No, sir; but your worship's warrant for one that has wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an my credit could compass it with your worship. Clem. Thou goest far enough about for't, I am sure. Kno. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him, friend? Cob. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour, by his means; an I die within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear by the law of the land that he killed me. Clem. How, how, knave, swear he killed thee, and by the law? What pretence, what colour hast thou for that? Cob. Marry, an't please your worship, both black and blue; colour enough, I warrant you. I have it here to shew your worship. Clem. What is he that gave you this, sirrah? Cob. A gentleman and a soldier, he says, he is, of the city here. Clem. A soldier of the city! What call you him? Cob. Captain Bobadill. Clem. Bobadill! and why did he bob and beat you, sirrah? How began the quarrel betwixt you, ha? speak truly, knave, I advise you. Cob. Marry, indeed, an't please your worship, only because I spake against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them when they were taking on't; for nothing else. Clem. Ha! you speak against tobacco? Formal, his name. Form. What's your name, sirrah? Cob. Oliver, sir, Oliver Cob, sir. Clem. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail, Formal. Form. Oliver Cob, my master, justice Clement, says you shall go to the jail. Cob. O, I beseech your worship, for God's sake, dear master justice! Clem. 'Sprecious! an such drunkards and tankards as you are, come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him! Cob, O, good master justice! Sweet old gentleman! [To Knowell. Know. "Sweet Oliver," would I could do thee any good!--justice Clement, let me intreat you, sir. Clem. What! a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life! and he to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers!--Roger, away with him! 'Od's precious--I say, go to. Cob. Dear master justice, let me be beaten again, I have deserved it: but not the prison, I beseech you. Know. Alas, poor Oliver! Clem. Roger, make him a warrant:--he shall not go, but I fear the knave. Form. Do not stink, sweet Oliver, you shall not go; my master will give you a warrant. Cob. O, the Lord maintain his worship, his worthy worship! Clem. Away, dispatch him. [Exeunt Formal and Cob;] How now, master Knowell, in dumps, in dumps! Come, this becomes not. Know. Sir, would I could not feel my cares.