Bel. Ye brought me on, ye forced me to this foolery;
I am shamed, I am scorn’d, I am flurted! yes, I am so!
Though I cannot talk to a woman like your worship,
And use my phrases, and my learned figures,
Yet I can fight with any man.

Mir. Fy!

Bel. I can, sir;
And I will fight.

Mir. With whom?

Bel. With you; with any man;
For all men now will laugh at me.

Mir. Pr’thee be moderate.

Bel. And I’ll beat all men. Come!

Mir. I love thee dearly.

Bel. I will beat all that love; love has undone me!
Never tell me! I will not be a history.

Mir. Thou art not.

Bel. ’Sfoot, I will not! Give me room,
And let me see the proudest of ye jeer me;
And I’ll begin with you first.

Mir. Pr’ythee, Belleur!
If I do not satisfy thee—

Bel. Well, look you do.
But, now I think on’t better, ’tis impossible!
I must beat somebody; I am maul’d myself,
And I ought in justice—

Mir. No, no, no, ye are cozen’d:
But walk, and let me talk to thee.

Bel. Talk wisely,
And see that no man laugh, upon no occasion;
For I shall think then ’tis at me.

Mir. I warrant thee.

Bel. Nor no more talk of this.

Mir. Dost think I am maddish?

Bel. I must needs fight yet; for I find it concerns me:
A pox on’t: I must fight.

Mir. I’ faith, thou shalt not.

[Exeunt.