_Mis._ Oh, but for one that writ against me, _Swash_, Ide had a glorious Conquest in that Ile, How my Bookes tooke effect! how greedily The credulous people swallowed downe my hookes How rife debate sprang betwixt man and wife! The little Infant that could hardly speake, Would call his Mother Whore. O, it was rare! _Clow._ Oh, damn’d Rogue! I stay but here, in hope, to see him hang’d, And carrie newes to _England_, then I know, The women there will neuer see me want, For God he knowes, I loue vm with my heart, But dare not shew it for my very eares. What course, Sir, shall we take to hide our selues? _Mis._ The same we did at _Bristow_, Fencing Boy; Oh 't is a fearefull name to Females, _Swash_, I haue bought Foiles alreadie, set vp Bils, Hung vp my two-hand Sword, and chang’d my name: Call me _Mysogenos_. _Enter Scanfardo._ _Clow._ A sodden Nose. _Mis._ _Mysogenos_, I say. Remember, _Swash_, heere comes a Gentleman. I know him well, he serues a Noble Lord. Seignior _Scanfardo_, happily encountred. _Scan._ Thanks, my noble Gladiator, Doctor of Defence. _Mis._ A Master, Sir, of the most magnanimous Method of Cudgell-cracking. _Scan._ Ime glad I met with you. I was now comming to be entred, Sir. _Mis._ That you shall presently. My Rapier, _Swash_. Come, Sir, I’ll enter you. _Scan._ What meane you, Sir? _Mis._ You say you would be entred, if you will, Ile put you to the _Puncto_ presently. _Scan._ Your Scholler, Sir, I meane. _Mis._ O welcome, Sir, What, haue you brought your Fees? _Scan._ Yes, Sir: what is’t? _Mis._ Twentie _Piastros_, your admittance Sir, And fiue, your quarteridge. _Clow._ Besides Vshers Fees. There goes a garnish and a breake-fast too. _Scan._ Well, I’m content, there ’tis. _Clow._ Come when you will, find you _Piastros_, Sir, And we’ll find you crackt crownes. _Mis._ Booke him, my bold Vsher. _Clow._ That I will, your denomination, Seignior. _Scan._ Seignior _Scanfardo, Della Sancta Cabrado_. _Clow._ Seig. _Scan. Della Sancta Cabrado?_ a terrible name. _Mis._ Giue me your hand, Scholer, so Ile cal you now. Ile make you one of the Sonnes of Art. _Swash_, giue my Scholer the Foyle. _Clow._ Doe not take it in scorne, I haue gi’n many a good Gentleman the Foyle, Sir. _Mis._ I was going this morning to practise a young Duellist, That shortly goes to fight at _Callis Sands_. Come, Sir, to your guard. _Scan._ Not here in publike, I am a young beginner. Come to my Chamber, Sir, Ile practise there. _Mis._ Doe, and Ile teach you the very mysterie of Fencing, that in a fortnight, you shall be able to challenge any Scholer vnder the degree of a Prouost, and in a quarter of a yeere, beat all the Fencers in _Germany_. Our English Masters of this Noble Science would ha’ gi’n fortie pound to haue knowne that tricke. _Scan._ Say you so, Sir?