_Enter_ Petruchio, Antonio, _and 2 Gent_.
_Petr._ He will sure come. Are ye well arm'd?
_Ant._ Never fear us.
Here's that will make 'em dance without a Fiddle.
_Petr._ We are to look for no weak foes, my friends,
Nor unadvised ones.
_Ant._ Best gamesters make the best game,
We shall fight close and handsom then.
_1 Gent. Antonio_,
You are a thought too bloudy.
_Ant._ Why? all Physicians
And penny Almanacks allow the opening
Of veins this moneth: why do ye talk of bloudy?
What come we for, to fall to cuffes for apples?
What, would ye make the cause a Cudgel quarrel?
On what terms stands this man? is not his honour
Open'd to his hand, and pickt out like an Oyster?
His credit like a quart pot knockt together,
Able to hold no liquor? clear but this point.
_Petr._ Speak softly, gentle cousin.
_Ant._ I'le speak truly;
What should men do ally'd to these disgraces,
Lick o're his enemie, sit down, and dance him?
_2 Gent._ You are as far o'th' bow hand now.
_Ant._ And crie;
That's my fine boy, thou wilt do so no more child.
_Petr._ Here are no such cold pities.
_Ant._ By Saint _Jaques_
They shall not find me one: here's old tough _Andrew_,
A special friend of mine, and he but hold,
I'le strike 'em such a hornpipe: knocks I come for,
And the best bloud I light on; I profess it,
Not to scare Coster-mongers; If I lose mine own,
Mine audits cast, and farewel five and fifty.
_Pet._ Let's talk no longer, place your selves with silence,
As I directed ye, and when time calls us,
As ye are friends, so shew your selves.
_Ant._ So be it. [_Exeunt._