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Arm. By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

Cost. I will not fight with a pole like a Northren man; I’ll slash, I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you let me borrow my arms again.

Dum. Room for the incens’d Worthies!

Cost. I’ll do it in my shirt.

Dum. Most resolute Pompey!

Moth. Master, let me take you a button-hole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation.

Arm. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me, I will not combat in my shirt.

Dum. You may not deny it; Pompey hath made the challenge.

Arm. Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

Ber. What reason have you for’t?

Arm. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance.

Boyet. True, and it was enjoin’d him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that ’a wears next his heart for a favor.

Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcade.

Marc.

God save you, madam!

Prin.

Welcome, Marcade,

But that thou interruptest our merriment.