LITMIR.BIZ

      Din. Disswade me not.

      Clere. It will breed a brawl.

      Din. I care not, I wear a Sword.

      Cler. And wear discretion with it,

      Or cast it off, let that direct your arm,

      'Tis madness else, not valour, and more base

      Than to receive a wrong.

      Din. Why would you have me

      Sit down with a disgrace, and thank the doer?

      We are not Stoicks, and that passive courage

      Is only now commendable in Lackies,

      Peasants, and Tradesmen, not in men of rank

      And qualitie, as I am.

      Cler. Do not cherish

      That daring vice, for which the whole age suffers.

      The blood of our bold youth, that heretofore

      Was spent in honourable action,

      Or to defend, or to enlarge the Kingdom,

      For the honour of our Country, and our Prince,

      Pours it self out with prodigal expence

      Upon our Mothers lap, the Earth that bred us

      For every trifle; and these private Duells,

      Which had their first original from the Fr[enc]h

      (And for which, to this day, we are justly censured)

      Are banisht from all civil Governments:

      Scarce three in Venice, in as many years;

      In Florence, they are rarer, and in all

      The fair Dominions of the Spanish King,

      They are never heard of: Nay, those neighbour Countries,

      Which gladly imitate our other follies,

      And come at a dear rate to buy them of us,

      Begin now to detest them.

      Din. Will you end yet—

      Cler. And I have heard that some of our late Kings,

      For the lie, wearing of a Mistris favour,

      A cheat at Cards or Dice, and such like causes,

      Have lost as many gallant Gentlemen,

      As might have met the great Turk in the field

      With confidence of a glorious Victorie,

      And shall we then—

      Din. No more, for shame no more,

      Are you become a Patron too? 'tis a new one,

      No more on't, burn't, give it to some Orator,

      To help him to enlarge his exercise,

      With such a one it might do well, and profit

      The Curat of the Parish, but for Cleremont,

      The bold, and undertaking Cleremont,

      To talk thus to his friend, his friend that knows him,

      Dinant that knows his Cleremont, is absurd,

      And meer Apocrypha.

      Cler. Why, what know you of me?

      Din. Why if thou hast forgot thy self, I'le tell thee,

      And not look back, to speak of what thou wert

      At fifteen, for at those years I have heard

      Thou wast flesh'd, and enter'd bravely.

      Cler. Well Sir, well.

      Din. But yesterday, thou wast the common second,

      Of all that only knew thee, thou hadst bills

      Set up on every post, to give thee notice

      Where any difference was, and who were parties;

      And as to save the charges of the Law

      Poor men seek arbitrators, thou wert chosen

      By such as knew thee not, to compound quarrels:

      But thou wert so delighted with the sport,

      That if there were no just cause, thou wouldst make one,

      Or be engag'd thy self: This goodly calling

      Thou hast followed five and twenty years, and studied

      The Criticismes of contentions, and art thou

      In so few hours transform'd? certain this night

      Thou hast had strange dreams, or rather visions.

      Clere. Yes, Sir,

      I have seen fools, and fighters, chain'd together,

      And the Fighters had the upper hand, and whipt first,

      The poor Sots laughing at 'em. What I have been

      It skils not, what I will be is resolv'd on.

      Din. Why then you'l fight no more?

      Cler. Such is my purpose.

      Din. On no occasion?

      Cler. There you stagger me.

      Some kind of wrongs there are which flesh and blood

      Cannot endure.

      Din. Thou wouldst not willingly

      Live a protested coward, or be call'd

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