I'd test his theory upon his hide.
But no bones broken, madam--sir, I mean?--

ROS.
A scratch here that a handkerchief will heal--
And you?--

FIFE.
A scratch in _quiddity_, or kind:
But not in '_quo_'--my wounds are all behind.
But, as you say, to stop this strain,
Which, somehow, once one's in the vein,
Comes clattering after--there again!--
What are we twain--deuce take't!--we two,
I mean, to do--drench'd through and through--
Oh, I shall choke of rhymes, which I believe
Are all that we shall have to live on here.

ROS.
What, is our victual gone too?--

FIFE.
Ay, that brute
Has carried all we had away with her,
Clothing, and cate, and all.

ROS.
And now the sun,
Our only friend and guide, about to sink
Under the stage of earth.