_Scil_. Indeede sir, I am a man of few words, I have put up a little
bloodshed; marrie, I hope it shall be no stain to my manhoode, if I
keepe it out of my clothes.
_Host_. He shall pay for the blood-shed, my guestes shall take no wrong;
mine Host will spend his Cruse as franke as an Emperor; welcome, my
brave bullies.
_Ser_. Sir, be pacificall, the fellowe was possest with some critique
frenzie, and wee impute it to his madnes.
_Scil_. Madde! by Gods slid, if he were as madde as a weaver, I can
hardly put it up; for my blow, I care not so much, but he cald me foole;
slid, if I live till I dye, the one of us shall prove it.
_Host_. Some prophane Villaine, ile warrant him.
_Scil_. Doe you thinke I may not have an action against him?
_Host_. There's so many swaggerers; but alasse, how fel ye out?
_Scil_. By the welkin, I gave him not a foule word; first he calles me
foole, then he makes a full blowe at my body, and if, by good chance, I
had not warded it with my head, he might have spoild me.
_Enter Prentices_.
_Host_.
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