_Arm._ Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? thou shalt die. _Cost._ Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him. 670 _Dum._ Most rare Pompey! _Boyet._ Renowned Pompey! _Biron._ Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! _Dum._ Hector trembles. 675 _Biron._ Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! stir them on! stir them on! _Dum._ Hector will challenge him. _Biron._ Ay, if a’ have no more man’s blood in’s belly than will sup a flea. 680 _Arm._ By the north pole, I do challenge thee. _Cost._ I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I’ll slash; I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. _Dum._ Room for the incensed Worthies! 685 _Cost._ I’ll do it in my shirt. _Dum._ Most resolute Pompey! _Moth._ Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. 690 _Arm._ Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt. _Dum._ You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge. _Arm._ Sweet bloods, I both may and will. 695 _Biron._ What reason have you for’t? _Arm._ The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance. _Boyet._ True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen: since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a 700 dish-clout of Jaquenetta’s, and that a’ wears next his heart for a favour. _Enter_ MARCADE. _Mar._ God save you, madam! _Prin._ Welcome, Marcade; But that thou interrupt’st our merriment. 705 _Mar._ I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father— _Prin._ Dead, for my life! _Mar._ Even so; my tale is told. _Biron._ Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud. 710 _Arm._ For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [_Exeunt Worthies._ _King._ How fares your majesty? _Prin._ Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. 715 _King._ Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay. _Prin._ Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours; and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse, or hide, 720 The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath: your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue: 725 Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain’d.