_Nou._ Pish: no more, 95 Thy gall sure’s ouer throwne; these are my Councell, And we were now in serious discourse. _Pont._ Of perfume and apparell, can you rise And spend 5 houres in dressing talke, with these? _Nou._ Thou ’idst haue me be a dog: vp, stretch and shake, 100 And ready for all day. _Pont._ Sir, would you be More curious in preseruing of your honour. Trim, ’twere more manly. I am come to wake Your reputation, from this lethargy You let it sleep in, to perswade, importune, 105 Nay, to prouoke you, sir, to call to account This Collonell _Romont_, for the foule wrong Which like a burthen, he hath layd on you, And like a drunken porter, you sleepe vnder. ’Tis all the towne talkes, and beleeue, sir, 110 If your tough sense persist thus, you are vndone, Vtterly lost, you will be scornd and baffled By euery Lacquay; season now your youth, With one braue thing, and it shall keep the odour Euen to your death, beyond, and on your Tombe, 115 Sent like sweet oyles and Frankincense; sir, this life Which once you sau’d, I ne’re since counted mine, I borrow’d it of you; and now will pay it; I tender you the seruice of my sword To beare your challenge, if you’ll write, your fate: 120 Ile make mine owne: what ere betide you, I That haue liu’d by you, by your side will dye. _Nou._ Ha, ha, would’st ha’ me challenge poore _Romont_? Fight with close breeches, thou mayst think I dare not. Doe not mistake me (cooze) I am very valiant, 125 But valour shall not make me such an Asse. What vse is there of valour (now a dayes?) ’Tis sure, or to be kill’d, or to be hang’d. Fight thou as thy minde moues thee, ’tis thy trade, Thou hast nothing else to doe; fight with _Romont_? 130 No i’le not fight vnder a Lord. _Pont._ Farewell, sir, I pitty you. Such louing Lords walke their dead honours graues, For no companions fit, but fooles and knaues. Come _Malotin_. _Exeunt Pont. Mal._ _Enter Romont._ _Lila._ ’Sfoot, _Colbran_, the low gyant. 135 _Aym._ He has brought a battaile in his face, let’s goe. _Page._ _Colbran_ d’ee call him? hee’l make some of you smoake, I beleeue. _Rom._ By your leaue, sirs. _Aym._ Are you a Consort? _Rom._ D’ee take mee For a fidler? ya’re deceiu’d: Looke. Ile pay you. _Kickes ’em._ _Page._ It seemes he knows you one, he bumfiddles you so. 140 _Lila._ Was there euer so base a fellow? _Aym._ A rascall? _Lila._ A most vnciuill Groome? _Aym._ Offer to kicke a Gentleman, in a Noblemans chamber? A pox of your manners. 145