The sword you frame of such an excellent temper,
I 'll sheath in your own bowels.
There are a number of thy coat resemble
Your common post-boys.


Mont. Ha!


Brach. Your mercenary post-boys;
Your letters carry truth, but 'tis your guise
To fill your mouths with gross and impudent lies.


Servant. My lord, your gown.


Brach. Thou liest, 'twas my stool:
Bestow 't upon thy master, that will challenge
The rest o' th' household-stuff; for Brachiano
Was ne'er so beggarly to take a stool
Out of another's lodging: let him make
Vallance for his bed on 't, or a demy foot-cloth
For his most reverend moil. Monticelso,
Nemo me impune lacessit. [Exit.


Mont. Your champion's gone.