|1635| _Sir Ada._ Excellent, why then M. Tucca----
_Tuc._ Nay, whir, nymble Prickshaft; whir, away, I goe vpon life and death, away, flie Scanderbag flie.
_Enter_ Asinius Bubo, _and_ Horace _aloofe_.
_Boy._ Arme Captaine, arme, arme, arme, the foe is come downe.
_Asi._ Hold Capten Tucca holde, I am Bubo, & come to answer any thing you can lay to my charge.
_Tuc._ What, dost summon a parlie my little Drumsticke? tis too late; thou seest my red flag is hung out, Ile fill thy guts |1645| with thine owne carrion carcas, and then eate them vp in steed of Sawsages.
_Asin._ Vse me how you will; I am resolute, for I ha made my Will.
_Tuc._ Wilt fight Turke-a-ten-pence? wilt fight then?
|1650| _Asini._ Thou shalt finde Ile fight in a Godly quarrell, if I be once fir’d.
_Tuc._ Thou shalt not want fire, Ile ha thee burnt when thou wilt, my colde Cornelius: but come: _Respice funem_; looke, thou seest; open thy selfe my little Cutlers Shoppe, I challenge thee |1655| thou slender Gentleman, at foure sundrie weapons.
_Asi._ Thy challenge was but at one, and Ile answere but one.
_Boy._ Thou shalt answer two, for thou shalt answer me and my Capten.
_Tuc._ Well said Cockrell out-crowe him: art hardy noble Huon? |1660| art Magnanimious? licke-trencher; looke, search least some lye in ambush; for this man at Armes has paper in’s bellie, or some friend in a corner, or else hee durst not bee so cranke.
_Boy._ Capten, Capten, Horace stands sneaking heere.
_Tuc._ I smelt the foule-fisted Morter-treader, come my most |1665| damnable fastidious rascall, I haue a suite to both of you.
_Asi._ O holde, most pittifull Captaine holde.
_Hor._ Holde Capten, tis knowne that Horace is valliant, & a man of the sword.
_Tuc._ A Gentleman or an honest Cittizen, shall not Sit in your |1670| pennie-bench Theaters, with his Squirrell by his side cracking nuttes; nor sneake into a Tauerne with his Mermaid; but he shall be Satyr’d, and Epigram’d vpon, and his humour must run vpo’th Stage: you’ll ha _Euery Gentleman in’s humour_, and _Euery Gentleman out on’s humour_: wee that are heades of Legions and |1675| Bandes, and feare none but these same shoulder-clappers, shall feare you, you Serpentine rascall.
_Tuc._ Art not famous enough yet, my mad _Horastratus_, for killing a Player, but thou must eate men aliue? thy friends? Sirra |1680| wilde-man, thy Patrons? thou Anthropophagite, thy Mecænasses?