Flam. What, me, my lord? am I your dog?


Brach. A bloodhound: do you brave, do you stand me?


Flam. Stand you! let those that have diseases run;
I need no plasters.


Brach. Would you be kick'd?


Flam. Would you have your neck broke?
I tell you, duke, I am not in Russia;
My shins must be kept whole.


Brach. Do you know me?


Flam. Oh, my lord, methodically!
As in this world there are degrees of evils,
So in this world there are degrees of devils.
You 're a great duke, I your poor secretary.
I do look now for a Spanish fig, or an Italian sallet, daily.