_ Rather vices, _Eustace_;
Fighting! What's fighting? It may be in fashion,
Among Provant swords, and buffe-jerkin men:
But w'us that swim in choice of silkes and Tissues;
Though in defence of that word reputation,
Which is indeed a kind of glorious nothing,
To lose a dram of blood must needs appeare
As coarse as to be honest. _Eust._ And all this
You seriously beleeve. _Cow._ It is a faith,
That we will die in, since from the black guard
To the grim Sir in office, there are few
Hold other Tenets. _Eust._ [N]ow my eyes are open,
And I behold a strong necessity
That keepes 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 meanes.
_Eust._ Honour is nothing with you? _Cow._ A meere bubble,
For what's growne common, is no more regarded.
_Eust._ My sword forc'd from me too, and still detain'd,
You think's no blemish. _Egre._ Get me a battoone?
Tis twenty times more courtlike, and less trouble.
_Eust._ And yet you weare a sword. _Cow._ Yes, and a good one,
A Millan hilt, and a Damasco blade,
For ornament, no use the Court allowes it.
_Eust._ Wil't not fight of it selfe? _Cow._ I nere tri'd this,
Yet I have worne as faire as any man,
I'me sure I've made my Cutler rich, and paid
For several weapons, Turkish and Toledo's,
Two thousand Crownes, and yet could never light
Upon a fighting one. _Eust.
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