_Gui._ I know not you; whom doe you serve?
_Buss._ Serve, my lord!
_Gui._ Go to companion; your courtship's too saucie.
_Buss._ Saucie! Companion! 'tis the Guise,
but yet those termes might have beene spar'd of
the guiserd. Companion! He's jealous, by this
light. Are you blind of that side, Duke? Ile
to her againe for that. Forth, princely mistresse,
for the honour of courtship. Another riddle.
_Gui._ Cease your courtshippe, or, by heaven,
Ile cut your throat.
_Buss._ Cut my throat? cut a whetstone, young
Accius Noevius! Doe as much with your
tongue as he did with a rasor. Cut my throat!
_Barrisor._ What new-come gallant have wee
heere, that dares mate the Guise thus?
_L'Anou._ Sfoot, tis D'Ambois! the Duke mistakes
him (on my life) for some Knight of the
new edition.
_Buss._ Cut my throat! I would the King
fear'd thy cutting of his throat no more than I
feare thy cutting of mine.
_Gui._ Ile doe't, by this hand.
_Buss._ That hand dares not doe't; y'ave cut
too many throats already, Guise, and robb'd the
realme of many thousand soules, more precious
than thine owne. Come, madam, talk on. Sfoot,
can you not talk? Talk on, I say. Another
riddle.
_Pyrhot._ Here's some strange distemper.
_Bar._ Here's a sudden transmigration with
D'Ambois, out of the Knights ward into the
Duches bed.
_L'An._ See what a metamorphosis a brave
suit can work.
_Pyr._ Slight! step to the Guise, and discover
him.
_Bar._ By no meanes; let the new suit work;
wee'll see the issue.
_Gui._ Leave your courting.

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