SCENE VIII.

_Enter_ Petruchio, Antonio, _and 2 Gent_.

_Petr._ He will sure come. Are ye well arm'd?

_Ant._ Never fear us. Here's that will make 'em dance without a Fiddle.

_Petr._ We are to look for no weak foes, my friends, Nor unadvised ones.

_Ant._ Best gamesters make the best game, We shall fight close and handsom then.

_1 Gent. Antonio_, You are a thought too bloudy.

_Ant._ Why? all Physicians And penny Almanacks allow the opening Of veins this moneth: why do ye talk of bloudy? What come we for, to fall to cuffes for apples? What, would ye make the cause a Cudgel quarrel? On what terms stands this man? is not his honour Open'd to his hand, and pickt out like an Oyster? His credit like a quart pot knockt together, Able to hold no liquor? clear but this point.

_Petr._ Speak softly, gentle cousin.

_Ant._ I'le speak truly; What should men do ally'd to these disgraces, Lick o're his enemie, sit down, and dance him?

_2 Gent._ You are as far o'th' bow hand now.

_Ant._ And crie; That's my fine boy, thou wilt do so no more child.

_Petr._ Here are no such cold pities.

_Ant._ By Saint _Jaques_ They shall not find me one: here's old tough _Andrew_, A special friend of mine, and he but hold, I'le strike 'em such a hornpipe: knocks I come for, And the best bloud I light on; I profess it, Not to scare Coster-mongers; If I lose mine own, Mine audits cast, and farewel five and fifty.

_Pet._ Let's talk no longer, place your selves with silence, As I directed ye, and when time calls us, As ye are friends, so shew your selves.

_Ant._ So be it. [_Exeunt._