Clif. Hold, sir! This quarrel's mine!

[Coming forward and drawing.]

Wal. No man shall fight for me, sir!

Clif. By your leave,
Your patience, pray! My lord, for so I learn
Behoves me to accost you--for your own sake
Draw off your friend!

Wal. Not till we have a bout, sir!

Clif. My lord, your happy fortune ill you greet!
Ill greet it those who love you--greeting thus
The herald of it!

Wal. Sir, what's that to you?
Let go my sleeve!

Clif. My lord, if blood be shed
On the fair dawn of your prosperity,
Look not to see the brightness of its day.
'Twill be o'ercast throughout!

Gay. My lord, I'm struck!

Clif. You gave the first blow, and the hardest one!
Look, sir; if swords you needs must measure, I'm