_Eust_. Now my eyes are open, and I behold a strong necessity that keeps
me knave and coward.
_Cow_. Y'are the wiser.
_Eust_. Nor can I change my copy, if I purpose to be of your society.
_Egre_. By no means.
_Eust_. Honour is nothing with you?
_Cow_. A meer bubble; for what's grown common, is no more regarded.
_Eust_. My sword forc'd from me too, and still detain'd, you think 'tis no
blemish.
_Egre_. Get me a Batton, 'tis twenty times more Court-like, and less
trouble.
_Eust_. And yet you wear a sword.
_Cow. Yes, and a good one, a _Milan_ hilt, and a _Damasco_ blade for
ornament, not use, the Court allows it.
_Eust_. Will't not fight of it self?
_Cow_. I ne'er tri'd this, yet I have worn as fair as any man; I'm sure
I've made my Cutler rich, and paid for several weapons, _Turkish_ and
_Toledo's_, two thousand Crowns, and yet could never light upon a fighting
one.
_Eust_. I'le borrow this, I like it well.
_Cow_. 'Tis at your service, Sir, a Lath in a Velvet Scabbard will serve
my turn.
_Eust_. And now I have it, leave me; y'are infectious, the plague and
leprosie of your baseness spreading on all that do come near you; such as
you render the Throne of Majesty, the Court, suspected and contemptible;
you are Scarabee's that batten in her dung, and have no palats to taste
her curious Viands; and like Owles, can only see her night deformities,
but with the glorious splendor of her beauties, you are struck blind as
Moles, that undermine the sumptuous Building that allow'd you shelter: you
stick like running ulcers on her face, and taint the pureness of her
native candor, and being bad Servants, cause your Masters goodness to be
disputed of; you make the Court, that is the abstract of all Academies, to
teach and practise noble undertakings, (where courage sits triumphant
crown'd with Lawrel, and wisdom loaded with the weight of honour) a School
of Vices.
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