1 Pyr. 
   O, she is wilder, and more hard, withal,
   Than beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall. 
   Yet might she love me, to uprear her state: 
   Ay, but perhaps she hopes some nobler mate. 
   Yet might she love me, to content her fire: 
   Ay, but her reason masters her desire. 
   Yet might she love me as her beauty’s thrall: 
   Ay, but I fear she cannot love at all.

Tuc.  Now, the horrible, fierce soldier, you, sirrah.

2 Pyr. 
   What! will I brave thee? ay, and beard thee too;
   A Roman spirit scorns to bear a brain
   So full of base pusillanimity.

Hist.  Excellent!

Tuc.  Nay, thou shalt see that shall ravish thee anon; prick up thine ears, stinkard.—­The ghost, boys!

1 Pyr.  Vindicate!

2 Pyr.  Timoria!

1 Pyr.  Vindicta!

2 Pyr.  Timoria!

1 Pyr.  Veni!

2 Pyr.  Veni!

Tuc.  Now thunder, sirrah, you, the rumbling player.

2 Pyr.  Ay, but somebody must cry, Murder! then, in a small voice.

Tuc.  Your fellow-sharer there shall do’t: 

Cry, sirrah, cry.

1 Pyr.  Murder, murder!

2 Pyr.  Who calls out murder? lady, was it you?

Hist.  O, admirable good, I protest.

Tuc.  Sirrah, boy, brace your drum a little straiter, and do the t’other fellow there, he in the—­what sha’ call him—­and yet stay too.

2 Pyr. 
   Nay, an thou dalliest, then I am thy foe,
   And fear shall force what friendship cannot win;
   Thy death shall bury what thy life conceals. 
   Villain! thou diest for more respecting her—–­

1 Pyr.  O stay, my lord.

2 Pyr. 
   Than me: 
   Yet speak the truth, and I will guerdon thee;
   But if thou dally once again, thou diest.

Tuc.  Enough of this, boy.

2 Pyr. 
   Why, then lament therefore:  d—­n’d be thy guts
   Unto king Pluto’s Hell, and princely Erebus;
   For sparrows must have food—–­

Hist.  Pray, sweet captain, let one of them do a little of a lady.

Tuc.  O! he will make thee eternally enamour’d of him, there:  do, sirrah, do; ’twill allay your fellow’s fury a little.

1 Pyr. 
   Master, mock on; the scorn thou givest me,
   Pray Jove some lady may return on thee.

2 Pyr.  Now you shall see me do the Moor:  master, lend me your scarf a little.

Tuc.  Here, ’tis at thy service, boy.

2 Pyr.  You, master Minos, hark hither a little
                           [Exit with Minos, to make himself ready. 
Tuc.  How dost like him? art not rapt, art not tickled now? dost not applaud, rascal? dost not applaud?

Hist.  Yes:  what will you ask for them a week, captain?