Beaumont and Fletcher's Works. Volume 9. Beaumont Francis

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      Fran. Ye are merry, but if I take it thus,

      If I be foisted and jeer'd out of my goods.

      Lam. Nor I, I vow thee.

      Nor Master, nor Mate, I see your cunning.

      Alb. Oh be not angry Gentlemen.

      Moril. Yes Sir, we have reason.

      And some friends I can make.

      Mast. What I did Gentlemen, was for the general safety.

      If ye aim at me, I am not so tame.

      Tib. Pray take my counsel Gallants.

      Fight not till the Surgeon be well,

      He's damnable sea-sick, and may spoil all;

      Besides he has lost his Fiddlestick, and the best

      Box of Bores-grease; why do you make such faces,

      And hand your swords?

      Alb. Who would ye fight with Gentlemen?

      Who has done ye wrong? for shame be better temper'd.

      No sooner come to give thanks for our safeties,

      But we must raise new civil broils amongst us

      Inflame those angry powers, to shower new vengeance on us?

      What can we expect for these unmanly murmurs,

      These strong temptations of their holy pitties,

      But plagues in another kind, a fuller, so dreadful,

      That the singing storms are slumbers to it?

      Tib. Be men, and rule your minds;

      If you will needs fight, Gentlemen,

      And think to raise new riches by your valours,

      Have at ye, I have little else to do now

      I have said my prayers; you say you have lost,

      And make your loss your quarrel.

      And grumble at my Captain here, and the Master

      Two worthy persons, indeed too worthy for such rascals,

      Thou Galloon gallant, and Mammon you

      That build on golden Mountains, thou Money-Maggot;

      Come all, draw your swords, ye say ye are miserable.

      Alb. Nay, hold good Tibalt.

      Tib. Captain, let me correct 'em;

      I'll make ye ten times worse, I will not leave 'em;

      For look ye, fighting is as nourishing to me as eating,

      I was born quarrelling.

      Mast. Pray Sir.

      Tib. I will not leave 'em skins to cover 'em;

      Do ye grumble, when ye are well, ye rogues?

      Mast. Noble Du-pont.

      Tib. Ye have cloaths now: and ye prate.

      Amin. Pray Gentlemen, for my sake be at peace.

      Let it become me to make all friends.

      Fran. You have stopt our angers Lady.

      Alb. This shews noble.

      Tib. 'Tis well: 'tis very well: there's half a Bisket,

      Break't amongst ye all, and thank my bounty.

      This is Cloaths and Plate too; come no more quarrelling.

      Amin. But ha! what things are these,

      Are they humane creatures?