Yet might she love me, to content her fire:
Ay, but her reason masters her desire.
Yet might she love me as her beauty's thrall:
Ay, but I fear she cannot love at all.

Tuc. Now, the horrible, fierce soldier, you, sirrah.

2 Pyr.
What! will I brave thee? ay, and beard thee too;
A Roman spirit scorns to bear a brain
So full of base pusillanimity.

Hist. Excellent!

Tuc. Nay, thou shalt see that shall ravish thee anon; prick up
thine ears, stinkard.--The ghost, boys!

1 Pyr. Vindicate!

2 Pyr. Timoria!

1 Pyr. Vindicta!

2 Pyr. Timoria!

1 Pyr. Veni!

2 Pyr. Veni!

Tuc. Now thunder, sirrah, you, the rumbling player.