_Timol._ Your hand, Leosthenes: I cannot doubt, You, that have been victorious in the war, Should, in a combat fought with words, come off But with assured triumph. _Leost._ My deserts, sir, If, without arrogance, I may style them such, Arm me from doubt and fear. _Timol._ 'Tis nobly spoken. Nor be thou daunted (howsoe'er thy fortune Has mark'd thee out a slave) to speak thy merits: For virtue, though in rags, may challenge more Than vice, set off with all the trim of greatness. _Mar._ I had rather fall under so just a judge, Than be acquitted by a man corrupt, And partial, in his censure. _Archid._ Note his language; It relishes of better breeding than His present state dares promise. _Timol._ I observe it. Place the fair lady in the midst, that both, Looking with covetous eyes upon the prize They are to plead for, may, from the fair object, Teach Hermes eloquence. _Leost._ Am I fallen so low? My birth, my honour, and, what 's dearest to me, My love, and, witness of my love, my service, So undervalued, that I must contend With one, where my excess of glory must Make his o'erthrow a conquest? Shall my fulness Supply defects in such a thing, that never Knew any thing but want and emptiness, Give him a name, and keep it such, from this Unequal competition? If my pride, Or any bold assurance of my worth, Has pluck'd this mountain of disgrace upon me, I am justly punish'd, and submit; but if I have been modest, and esteem'd myself More injured in the tribute of the praise, Which no desert of mine, prized by self-love, Ever exacted, may this cause and minute For ever be forgotten! I dwell long Upon mine anger, and now turn to you, Ungrateful fair one; and, since you are such, 'Tis lawful for me to proclaim myself, And what I have deserved. _Cleo._ Neglect and scorn From me, for this proud vaunt. _Leost._ You nourish, lady, Your own dishonour in this harsh reply, And almost prove what some hold of your sex, You are all made up of passion: for, if reason Or judgment could find entertainment with you, Or that you would distinguish of the objects You look on, in a true glass, not seduced By the false light of your too violent will, I should not need to plead for that which you, With joy, should offer. Is my high birth a blemish? Or does my wealth, which all the vain expense Of women cannot waste, breed loathing in you? The honours I can call mine own, thought scandals? Am I deform'd, or, for my father's sins, Mulcted by nature? If you interpret these As crimes, 'tis fit I should yield up myself Most miserably guilty. But, perhaps, (Which yet I would not credit,) you have seen This gallant pitch the bar, or bear a burden Would crack the shoulders of a weaker bondman. _Cleo._ You are foul-mouth'd. _Archid._ Ill-manner'd too.