he man,
Which if you do not quickly, I begin with you,
I'le make you dance, do you see your fiddlestick?
Sweet A[d]vocate thou shalt fight.

_La-writ._ Stand farther Gentleman,
Or I'le give you such a dust o'th' chapps--

_Cler._ Spoke bravely,
And like thy self, a noble Advocate:
Come to thy tools.

_La-writ._ I do not say I'le fight;

_Cler._ I say thou shalt, and bravely.

_La-writ._ If I do fight;
I say, if I do, but do not depend upon't,
And yet I have a foolish itch upon me,
What shall become of my Writings?

_Cler._ Let 'em ly by,
They will not run away, man.

_La-writ._ I may be kill'd too,
And where are all my causes then? my business?
I will not fight, I cannot fight, my Causes--

_Cler._ Thou shalt fight, if thou hadst a thousand causes,
Thou art a man to fight for any cause,
And carry it with honour.

_La-writ._ Hum, say you so? if I should
Be such a coxcombe to prove valiant now--

_Cler._ I know thou art most valiant.

_La-writ._ Do you think so?
I am undone for ever, if it prove so,
I tell you that, my honest friend, for ever;
For I shall ne're leave quarrelling.
How long must we fight? for I cannot stay,
Nor will not stay, I have business.

_Cler._ We'l do't in a minute, in a moment.

_La-writ._ Here will I hang my bag then, it may save my belly,
I never lov'd cold Iron there.

_Cler._ You do wisely.

_La-writ._ Help me to pluck my Sword out then, quickly, quickly,
'Thas not seen Sun these ten years.

_Cler._ How it grumbles!
This Sword is vengeance angry.

_La-writ._ Now I'le put my hat up,
And say my prayers as I goe; away boy,
If I be kill'd, remember the little Lawyer. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ Beaupre.

_Beaup._ They are both come on, that may be a stubborn rascal,
Take you that ground,

_Enter_ La-writ.

I'le stay here, fight bravely.

_La-writ._ To't chearfully my boyes, you'l let's have fair play,
None of your foyning tricks.

_Beaup._ Come forward Monsieur; [_Fight._
What hast thou there? a pudding in thy belly?
I shall see what it holds.

_La-writ._ Put your spoon home then:
Nay, since I must fight, have at you without wit, Sir:
God a mercy bagg.

_Beaup._ Nothing but bumbast in ye?
The Rogue winks and fights.

_La-writ._ Now your fine fencing, Sir: [Beau. _loses his sword_.
Stand off, thou diest on point else, [La-writ _treads on it_.
I have it, I have it: yet further off:
I have his Sword.

_Cler._ T