_Tigr_.
Be plainer, good Sir.
_Arb_.
This woman shall carry no more letters back to your
Love _Panthea_, by Heaven she shall not, I say she shall not.
_Mar_.
This would make a Saint swear like a souldier.
_Tigr_.
This beats me more, King, than the blowes you gave me.
_Arb_.
Take'em away both, and together let them prisoners be, strictly
and closely kept, or Sirra, your life shall answer it, and let
no body speak with'em hereafter.
_Tigr_.
Well, I am subject to you,
And must indure these passions:
This is the imprisonment I have look'd for always.
And the dearer place I would choose.
[_Exeunt_ Tigr. Spa. Bac.
_Mar_.
Sir, you have done well now.
_Arb_.
Dare you reprove it?
_Mar_.
No.
_Arb_.
You must be crossing me.
_Mar_.
I have no letters Sir to anger you,
But a dry sonnet of my Corporals
To an old Suttlers wife, and that I'll burn, Sir.
'Tis like to prove a fine age for the Ignorant.
_Arb_.
How darst thou so often forfeit thy life?
Thou know'st 'tis in my power to take it.
_Mar_.
Yes, and I know you wo'not, or if you doe, you'll miss it
quickly.
_Arb_.
Why?
_Mar_.
Who shall tell you of these childish follies
When I am dead? who shall put to his power
To draw those vertues out of a flood of humors,
When they are drown'd, and make'em shine again?
No, cut my head off:
Then you may talk, and be believed, and grow worse,
And have your too self-glorious temper rot
Into a deep sleep, and the Kingdom with you,
Till forraign swords be in your throats, and slaughter
Be every where about you like your flatterers.
Do, kill me.
_Arb_.
Prethee be tamer, good _Mardonius,_
Thou know'st I love thee, nay I honour thee,
Believe it good old Souldier, I am thine;
But I am rack'd clean from my self, bear with me,
Woot thou bear with me my _Mardonius?_
_Enter_ Gobrias.
_Mar_.
There comes a good man, love him too, he's temperate,
You may live to have need of such a vertue,
Rage is not still in fashion.
_Arb_.
Welcome good _Gobrias_.
_Gob_.
My service and this letter to your Grace.
_Arb_.
From whom?
_Gob_.
From the rich Mine of vertue and beauty,
Your mournfull Sister.
_Arb_.
She is in prison, _Gobrias,_ is she not?
_Gob_.
She is Sir, till your pleasure to enlarge her,
Which on my knees I beg. Oh 'tis not fit,
That all the sweetness of the world in one,
The youth and vertue that would tame wild Tygers,
And wilder people, that have known no manners,
Should live thus cloistred up; for your loves sake,
If there be any in that noble heart,
To her a wretched Lady, and forlorn,
Or for her love to you, which is as much
As nature and obedience ever gave,
Have pity on her beauties.
_Arb_.
Pray thee stand up; 'Tis true, she is too fair,
And all these commendations but her own,
Would thou had'st never so commended her,
Or I nere liv'd to have heard it _Gobrias;_
If thou but know'st the wrong her beautie does her,
Thou wouldst in pity of her be a lyar,
Thy ignorance has drawn me wretched man,
Whither my self nor thou canst well tell: O my fate!
I think she loves me, but I fear another
Is deeper in her heart: How thinkst thou _Gobrias_?
_Gob_.
I do beseech your Grace believe it not,
For let me perish if it be not false. Good Sir, read her Letter.
_Mar_.
This Love, or what a devil it is I know not, begets more mischief
than a Wake. I had rather be well beaten, starv'd, or lowsie,
than live within the Air on't. He that had seen this brave fellow
Charge through a grove of Pikes but t'other day, and look upon
him now, will ne'r believe his eyes again: if he continue thus
but two days more, a Taylor may beat him with one hand tied
behind him.
_Arb_.
Alas, she would be at liberty.
And there be a thousand reasons _Gobrias,_
Thousands that will deny't:
Which if she knew, she would contentedly
Be where she is: and bless her vertues for it,
And me, though she were closer, she would, _Gobrias,_
Good man indeed she would.
_Gob_.
Then good Sir, for her satisfaction,
Send for her and with reason make her know
Why she must live thus from you.
_Arb_.