'tis now to me
Not worth the keeping. I will follow him,
Farewel, wish me good fortune, we shall meet
Again I doubt not.

_Rut_. Or I'le ne're trust _Jew_ more, [_Exit_ Arnoldo.
Nor Christian for his sake--plague o' my stars,
How long might I have walkt without a Cloak,
Before I should have met with such a fortune?
We elder Brothers, though we are proper men,
_Ha' not the luck_, ha' too much beard, that spoils us;
The smooth Chin carries all: what's here to do now?
[_Manet_ Rutilio.

_Enter_ Duarte, Alonzo, _and a_ Page.

_Dua_. I'le take you as I find you.

_Alon_. That were base--you see I am unarm'd.

_Dua_. Out with your Bodkin
Your Pocket-dagger, your Steletto, out with it,
Or by this hand I'le kill you: such as you are
Have studied the undoing of poor Cutlers,
And made all manly weapons out of fashion:
You carry Poniards to murder men,
Yet dare not wear a sword to guard your Honour.

_Rut_. That's true indeed: upon my life this gallant
Is brib'd to repeal banisht swords.

_Dua_. I'le shew you
The difference now between a _Spanish_ Rapier
And your pure Pisa.

_Alon_. Let me fetch a sword,
Upon mine honour I'le return.

_Dua._ Not so Sir.

_Alon._ Or lend me yours I pray you, and take this.

_Rut._ To be disgrac'd as you are, no I thank you
Spight of the fashion, while I live, I am
Instructed to go arm'd: what folly 'tis
For you that are a man, to put your self
Into your enemies mercy.

_Dua._ Yield it quickly
Or I'le cut off your hand, and now disgrace you,
Thus kick and baffle you: as you like this,
You may again prefer complaints against me
To my Uncle and my Mother, and then think
To make it good with a Poniard.

_Alon._ I am paid
For being of the fashion.

_Dua._ Get a sword,
Then if you dare redeem your reputation:
You know I am easily found: I'le add this to it
To put you in mind.

_Rut._ You are too insolent,
And do insult too much on the advantage
Of that which your unequal weapon gave you,
More than your valour.

_Dua._ This to me, you Peasant?
Thou art not worthy of my foot poor fellow,
'Tis scorn, not pity, makes me give thee life:
Kneel down and thank me for't: how, do you stare?

_Rut._ I have a sword Sir, you shall find, a good one;
This is no stabbing guard.

_Dua._ Wert thou thrice arm'd,
Thus yet I durst attempt thee.

_Rut._ Then have at you, [_Fight._
I scorn to take blows.

_Dua._ O I am slain. [_Falls._

_Page._ Help! murther, murther!

_Alo