The Little French Lawyer: A Comedy - Beaumont Francis

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for willingly, by this light,

      I'le never see thee more.

      Din. Two hours, do you say?

      Lamira. Only two hours.

      Din. I were no Gentleman,

      Should I make scruple of it; this favour arms me,

      And boldly I'll perform it.                     [Exit.

      Lamira. I am glad on't.

      This will prevent their meeting yet, and keep

      My Brother safe, which was the mark I shot at.                     [Exit.

      Actus Secundus. Scena Prima

      Enter Cleremont, as in the field.

      Cler. I am first i'th' field, that honour's gain'd of our side,

      Pray Heaven I may get off as honourablie,

      The hour is past, I wonder Dinant comes not,

      This is the place, I cannot see him yet;

      It is his quarel too that brought me hither,

      And I ne'r knew him yet, but to his honour

      A firm and worthy Friend, yet I see nothing,

      Nor Horse nor man, 'twould vex me to be left here,

      To th' mercy of two swords, and two approv'd ones.

      I never knew him last.

      Enter Beaupre, and Verdone.

      Beaup. You are well met Cleremont.

      Verdo. You are a fair Gentleman, and love your friend Sir.

      What are you ready? the time has overta'ne us.

      Beaup. And this you know the place.

      Cler. No Dinant yet?

      Beaup. We come not now to argue, but to do;

      We wait you Sir.

      Cler. There's no time past yet Gentlemen,

      We have day enough: is't possible he comes not?

      You see I am ready here, and do but stay

      Till my Friend come, walk but a turn or two,

      'Twill not be long.

      Verd. We came to fight.

      Cler. Ye shall fight Gentlemen,

      And fight enough, but a short turn or two,

      I think I see him, set up your watch, we'l fight by it.

      Beaup. That is not he; we will not be deluded.

      Cler. Am I bob'd thus? pray take a pipe of tobacco,

      Or sing but some new air; by that time, Gentlemen—

      Verd. Come draw your Sword, you know the custome here Sir,

      First come, first serv'd.

      Cler. Though it be held a custom,

      And practised so, I do not hold it honest;

      What honour can you both win on me single?

      Beaup. Yield up your Sword then.

      Cler. Yield my Sword? that's Hebrew;

      I'le be first cut a p[iec]es; hold but a while,

      I'le take the next that comes.

      Enter an old Gentleman.

      You are an old Gentleman?

      Gent. Yes indeed am I, Sir.

      Cler. And wear no Sword?

      Gent. I need none, Sir.

      Cler. I would you did, and had one;

      I want now such a foolish courtesie.

      You see these Gentlemen?

      Gent. You want a second.

      In good Faith Sir, I was never handsom at it,

      I would you had my Son, but he's in Italy,

      A proper Gentleman; you may do well gallants

      If your quarrel be not capital, to have more mercy,

      The Gentleman may do his Country—

      Cler. Now I beseech you, Sir,

      If you dare not fight, do not stay to beg my pardon.

      There lies your way.

      Gent. Good morrow Gentlemen.                     [Exit.

      Verd. You see your fortune,

      You had better yield your Sword.

      Cler. Pray ye stay a little.

      Enter two Gentlemen.

      Upon mine honestie, you shall be fought with;

      Well, Dinant, well, these wear swords and seem brave fellows.

      As you are Gentlemen, one of you supply me.

      I want a Second now to meet these gallants,

      You know what honour is.

      1 Gent. Sir you must pardon us,

      We goe about the same work, you are ready for;

      And must fight presently, else we were your servants.

      2 Gent. God speed you, and good day.                     [Exit Gent.

      Cler. Am I thus Colted?

      Beaup. Come either yield—

      Cler. As you are honest Gentlemen,

      Stay but the next, and then I'le take my fortune,

      And if I fight not like a man—Fy Dinant,

      Cold now and treacherous.

      Enter Monsieur La-writ, within.

      La-Writ. I understand your causes.

      Yours about corn, yours about pins and glasses,

      Will you make me mad, have I not all the parcells?

      And his Petition too, about Bell-founding?

      Send in your witnesses, what will you have me do?

      Will you have me break my heart? my brains are melted;

      And tell your Master, as I am a Gentleman,

      His Cause shall be the first, commend me to your Mistris,

      And tell her, if there be an extraordinary feather,

      And tall enough for her—I shall dispatch you too,

      I know your cause, for transporting of Farthingales

      Trouble me no more, I say again to you,

      No more vexation: bid my wife send me some puddings;

      I have a Cause to run through, requires puddings,

      Puddings enough. Farewel.

      Cler. God speed you, Sir.

      Beaup. Would he would take this fellow.

      Verd.

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