t, 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.

2 Pyr. Ay, but somebody must cry, Murder! then, in a small voice.

Tuc. Your fellow-sharer there shall do't:

Cry, sirrah, cry.

1 Pyr. Murder, murder!

2 Pyr. Who calls out murder? lady, was it you?

Hist. O, admirable good, I protest.

Tuc. Sirrah, boy, brace your drum a little straiter, and do the
t'other fellow there, he in the--what sha' call him--and yet stay
too.

2 Pyr.
Nay, an thou dalliest, then I am thy foe,
And fear shall force what friendship cannot win;
Thy death shall bury what thy life conceals.
Villain! thou diest for more respecting her---

1 Pyr. O stay, my lord.

2 Pyr.
Than me:
Yet speak the truth, and I will guerdon thee;
But if thou dally once again, thou diest.

Tuc. Enough of this, boy.

2 Pyr.
Why, then lament therefore: d--n'd be thy guts
Unto king Pluto's Hell, and princely Erebus;
For sparrows must have food---

Hist. Pray, sweet captain, let one of them do a little of a lady.

Tuc. O! he will make thee eternally enamour'd of him, there: do,
sirrah, do; 'twill allay your fellow's fury a little.

1 Pyr.
Master, mock on; the scorn thou givest me,
Pray Jove some lady may return on thee.

2 Pyr. Now you shall see me do the Moor: master, lend me your scarf
a little.

Tuc. Here, 'tis at thy service, boy.

2 Pyr. You, master Minos, hark hither a little
[Exit with Minos, to make himself ready.
Tuc. How dost like him? art not rapt, art not tickled now? dost not
applaud, rascal? dost not applaud?

Hist. Yes: what will you ask for them a week, captain?

Tuc. No, you mangonising slave, I will not part from them; you'll
sell them for enghles, you: let's have good cheer tomorrow night
at supper, stalker, and then we'll talk; good capon and plover, do
you hear, sirrah? and do not bring your eating player with you
there; I cannot away with him: he will eat a leg of mutton while I
am in my porridge, the lean Polyphagus, his belly is like
Barathrum; he looks like a midwife in man's apparel, the slave: nor
the villanous out-of-tune fiddler, AEnobarbus, bring not him. What
hast thou there? six and thirty, ha?

Hist. No, here's all I have