_Hect_. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
_Ther_. No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy
rogue.
_Hect_. I do believe thee. Live.
Exit
_Ther_. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy
neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think
they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in
a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them.
Exit