Bawdry advanc'd upon my back? 'tis noble:
Sir, if you be a Souldier come no nearer,
She is sent to dispossess you of your honour,
A Spunge, a Spunge to wipe away your Victories:
And she would be cool'd, Sir, let the Souldiers trim her!
They'll give her that she came for, and dispatch her;
Be loyal to your self. Thou damned Woman,
Dost thou come hither with thy flourishes,
Thy flaunts, and faces to abuse mens manners?
And am I made the instrument of Bawdry?
I'll find a Lover for ye, one that shall hug ye.

_Cæs._ Hold, on thy life, and be more temperate,
Thou Beast.

_Sce._ Thou Beast?

_Cæs._ Could'st thou be so inhumane,
So far from noble Men, to draw thy Weapon
Upon a thing divine?

_Sce._ Divine, or humane,
They are never better pleas'd, nor more at hearts ease,
Than when we draw with full intent upon 'em.

_Cæs._ Move this way (Lady)
'Pray ye let me speak to ye.

_Sce._ And Woman, you had best stand.