_Bes_.
A little butter, friend a little butter, butter and parseley and
a soveraign matter: _probatum est_.
_2 Sword_.
Captain we must request your hand now to our honours.
_Bes_.
Yes marry shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are
valiant to our selves, and there's an end.
_1 Sword_.
Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs.
_2 Sword_.
O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are
murtherers.
[_Exeunt clear_.
_Enter_ Arbaces _with his sword drawn_.
_Arb_.
It is resolv'd, I bare it whilst I could, I can no more, I must
begin with murther of my friends, and so go on to that incestuous
ravishing, and end my life and sins with a forbidden blow, upon
my self.
_Enter_ Mardonius.
_Mar_.
What Tragedy is near? That hand was never wont to draw a sword,
but it cry'd dead to something.
_Arb_.
_Mardonius_, have you bid _Gobrias_ come?
_Mar_.
How do you Sir?
_Arb_.
Well, is he coming?
_Mar_.
Why Sir, are you thus? why do your hands proclaim a lawless War
against your self?
_Arb_.
Thou answerest me one question with an other, is _Gobrias_
coming?
_Mar_.
Sir he is.
_Arb_.
'Tis well, I can forbear your questions then, be gone.
_Mar_.
Sir, I have mark't.
_Arb_.
Mark less, it troubles you and me.
_Mar_.
You are more variable than you were.
_Arb_.
It may be so.
_Mar_.
To day no Hermit could be humbler than you were to us all.
_Arb_.
And what of this?
_Mar_.
And now you take new rage into your eyes, as you would look us
all out of the Land.
_Arb_.