A King, and No King - LightNovelsOnl.com
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O' this side good my Lord.
_Bac_.
Off with your swords, for if you hurt my foot, I'le have you flead you Rascals.
_1 Sword_.
Mine's off my Lord.
_2 Sword_.
I beseech your Lords.h.i.+p stay a little, my strap's tied to my Cod piece-point: now when you please.
_Bac_.
Captain these are your valiant friends, you long for a little too?
_Bes_.
I am very well, I humbly thank your Lords.h.i.+p.
_Bac_.
What's that in your pocket, hurts my Toe you Mungril? Thy b.u.t.tocks cannot be so hard, out with it quickly.
_2 Sword_.
Here 'tis Sir, a small piece of Artillery, that a Gentleman a dear friend of your Lords.h.i.+ps sent me with, to get it mended Sir, for if you mark, the nose is somewhat loose.
_Bac_.
A friend of mine you Rascal? I was never wearier of doing any thing, than kicking these two Foot-b.a.l.l.s.
_Enter_ Servant.
_Serv_.
Here is a good Cudgel Sir.
_Bac_.
It comes too late I'me weary, pray thee do thou beat them.
_2 Sword_.
My Lord, this is foul play i'faith, to put a fresh man upon us, men are but men Sir.
_Bac_.
That jest shall save your bones; Captain, Rally up your rotten Regiment and be gone: I had rather thrash than be bound to kick these Rascals, till they cry'd ho; _Bessus_ you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit. Farewel, as you like this, pray visit me again, 'twill keep me in good health.
[_Exit_ Bac.
_2 Sword_.
H'as a devilish hard foot, I never felt the like.
_1 Sword_.
Nor I, and yet I am sure I have felt a hundred.
_2 Sword_.
If he kick thus i'th' Dog-daies, he will be dry foundred: what cure now Captain besides Oyl of Baies?
_Bes_.
Why well enough I warrant you, you can go.
_2 Sword_.
Yes, heaven be thanked; but I feel a shrowd ach, sure h'as sprang my huckle-bone.
_1 Sword_.
I ha' lost a hanch.
_Bes_.
A little b.u.t.ter, friend a little b.u.t.ter, b.u.t.ter and pa.r.s.eley and a soveraign matter: _probatum est_.
_2 Sword_.
Captain we must request your hand now to our honours.
_Bes_.
Yes marry shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are valiant to our selves, and there's an end.
_1 Sword_.
Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs.
_2 Sword_.
O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are murtherers.
[_Exeunt clear_.
