_Bac_.
What's that in your pocket, hurts my Toe you Mungril? Thy
Buttocks 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 Lordships 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-balls.
_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_.