_Re-enter_ Clem. Clem. The maid, forsooth, sent me to know whether you would have the shoulder of mutton roasted or sod.[2.30] Roughman. A mischief on your shoulders! [_Strikes him_. Clem. That’s the way to make me never prove good porter. Bess. You still heap wrongs on wrongs. Roughman. I was in fury, To think upon the violence of that fight, And could not stay my rage. Fawcett. Once more proceed. Roughman. Oh! had you seen two tilting meteors justle In the mid-region, with like fear and fury We too encountered. Not Briareus Could with his hundred hands have struck more thick: Blows came about my head,--I took them still; Thrusts by my sides, ’twixt body and my arms,-- Yet still I put them by. Bess. When they were past, he put them by.--Go on. But in this fury, what became of him? Roughman. I think I paid him home: he’s soundly mauled. I bosomed him at every second thrust. Bess. Scaped he with life? Roughman. Ay, that’s my fear. If he recover this, I’ll never trust my sword more. Bess. Why fly you not, if he be in such danger? Roughman. Because a witch once told me I ne’er should die for murder. Bess. I believe thee. But tell me, pray, was not this gallant fellow A pretty, fair, young youth, about my years? Roughman. Even thereabout. Clem. He was not fifty, then. Bess. Much of my stature? Roughman. Much about your pitch.[2.31] Clem. He was no giant, then. Bess. And wore a suit like this? Roughman. I half suspect. Bess. That gallant fellow, So wounded and so mangled, was myself. You base, white-livered slave! it was this shoe That thou stooped to untie; untrussed those points; And, like a beastly coward, lay along Till I strid over thee. Speak; was’t not so? Roughman. It cannot be denied. Bess. Hare-hearted fellow! milksop! Dost not blush? Give me that rapier: I will make thee swear Thou shalt redeem this scorn thou hast incurred, Or in this woman shape I’ll cudgel thee, And beat thee through the streets. As I am Bess, I’ll do’t. Roughman. Hold, hold! I swear. Bess. Dare not to enter at my door till then. Roughman. Shame confounds me quite. Bess. That shame redeem, perhaps we’ll do thee grace; I love the valiant, but despise the base. [_Exit_. Clem. Will you be kicked, sir? Roughman. She hath wakened me, And kindled that dead fire of courage in me Which all this while hath slept. To spare my flesh And wound my fame, what is’t? I will not rest, Till by some valiant deed I have made good All my disgraces past. I’ll cross the street, And strike the next brave fellow that I meet. Fawcett. I am bound to see the end on’t. Roughman. Are you, sir? [_Beats off_ Fawcett. [_Exeunt_. SCENE III.--_A Street in Foy_. _Enter the_ Mayor of Foy, _an_ Alderman, _and_ Servant.