MAT. Ay, sir, he.

BOB. Hang him, rook! he! why, he has no more judgment than a
malt-horse. By St. George, I hold him the most peremptory absurd
clown (one a them) in Christendom: I protest to you (as I am a
gentleman and a soldier) I ne'er talk'd with the like of him: he
has not so much as a good word in his belly, all iron, iron, a
good commodity for a smith to make hob-nails on.

MAT. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still
where he comes: he brags he will give me the bastinado, as I hear.

BOB. How, the bastinado? how came he by that word, trow?

MAT. Nay, indeed, he said cudgel me; I termed it so for the
more grace.

BOB. That may be, for I was sure it was none of his word: but
when, when said he so?

MAT. Faith, yesterday, they say, a young gallant, a friend of
mine, told me so.

BOB. By the life of Pharaoh, an't were my case now, I should send
him a challenge presently: the bastinado! come hither, you shall
challenge him; I'll shew you a trick or two, you shall kill him at
pleasure, the first stoccado if you will, by this air.

MAT. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge in the mystery, I have
heard, sir.