Fran. We 'll end this with the cannon.


Brach. Thou 'lt get naught by it, but iron in thy wounds,
And gunpowder in thy nostrils.


Fran. Better that,
Than change perfumes for plasters.


Brach. Pity on thee!
'Twere good you 'd show your slaves or men condemn'd,
Your new-plough'd forehead. Defiance! and I 'll meet thee,
Even in a thicket of thy ablest men.


Mont. My lords, you shall not word it any further
Without a milder limit.


Fran. Willingly.


Brach. Have you proclaim'd a triumph, that you bait
A lion thus?