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.