_Swash._ No, no, no, no, Ile tell you all, He is no Fencer, that’s but for a shew, For feare of being beaten: the best Clarke, For cowardise that can be in the World, To terrifie the Female Champions, He was in England, a poore Scholer first, And came to Medley, to eate Cakes and Creame, At my old Mothers house, she trusted him: At least some sixteene shillings o’the score, And he perswaded her, he would make me A Scholer of the Niniuersitie, which she, kind Foole, beleeu’d: He neu’r taught me any Lesson, but to raile against women, That was my morning and my euening Lecture. And in one yeere he runne away from thence, And then he tooke the habit of a Fencer: And set vp Schoole at Bristow: there he liu’d A yeere or two, till he had writ this Booke: And then the women beat him out the Towne, And then we came to London: there forsooth, He put his Booke i’the Presse, and publisht it, And made a thousand men and wiues fall out. Till two or three good wenches, in meere spight, Laid their heads together, and rail’d him out of th’ Land, Then we came hither: this is all forsooth. _Aur._ ’Tis eu’n enough. _Mis._ ’Tis all as false as women. _Omnes._ Stop his mouth. _Atlan._ Either be quiet, or y’are gag’d agen. _Aur._ Proceed in Iudgement. _Atlan._ Madame, thus it is. First, he shall weare this Mouzell, to expresse His barking humour against women-kind. And he shall be led, and publike showne, In euery Street i’ the Citie, and be bound In certaine places to a Post or Stake, And bayted by all the honest women in the Parish. _Mis._ Is that the worst? there will not one be found In all the Citie. _Omnes._ Out, you lying Rascall. Forbeare a little. _Atlan._ Then he shal be whipt quite thorow the Land, Till he come to the Sea-Coast, and then be shipt, And sent to liue amongst the Infidels. _Omnes._ Oh, the Lord preserue your Grace. _Lor._ Oh, oh, oh. _Aur._ Call in his Bookes, And let vm all be burn’d and cast away, And his Arraignment now put i’the Presse, That he may liue a shame vnto his Sex. _Atlan._ Sirrah, the charge be yours: which if you faile, You shall be vs’d so too: if well perform’d, You shall be well rewarded. Breake vp Court. _Omnes._ Away, you bawling Mastiffe. _Clow._ Pish, pish. _Exeunt._ _Enter_ Atticus, Sforza, Nicanor, _and one or two Lords more_. _King._ Why doe you thus pursue me? Can no place Shelter a King from being bayted thus With Acclamations beyond sufferance Of Maiestie, or mortall strength to beare? We will indure’t no longer. Where’s our Guard? Where is _Aurelia_? where’s _Iago_ gone? To studie new Inuectiues? If agen They dare but vtter the least syllable, Or smallest title of inueteracie, They shall not breathe a minute. Must a Prince Be checkt, and schooled, pursued and scolded at, For executing Iustice?