Nym. I am not Barbason, you cannot coniure mee: I
haue an humor to knocke you indifferently well: If you
grow fowle with me Pistoll, I will scoure you with my
Rapier, as I may, in fayre tearmes. If you would walke
off, I would pricke your guts a little in good tearmes, as
I may, and that's the humor of it

Pist. O Braggard vile, and damned furious wight,
The Graue doth gape, and doting death is neere,
Therefore exhale

Bar. Heare me, heare me what I say: Hee that strikes
the first stroake, Ile run him vp to the hilts, as I am a soldier

Pist. An oath of mickle might, and fury shall abate.
Giue me thy fist, thy fore-foote to me giue: Thy spirites
are most tall

Nym. I will cut thy throate one time or other in faire
termes, that is the humor of it

Pistoll. Couple a gorge, that is the word. I defie thee againe.
O hound of Creet, think'st thou my spouse to get?
No, to the spittle goe, and from the Poudring tub of infamy,
fetch forth the Lazar Kite of Cressids kinde, Doll
Teare-sheete, she by name, and her espouse. I haue, and I
will hold the Quondam Quickely for the onely shee: and
Pauca, there's enough to go to.
Enter the Boy.