_Bess_.
A little butter friend, a little butter; butter and parselie is a
soveraigne matter: _probatum est_.
1.
Captaine, we must request your hands now to our honours.
_Bess_.
Yes marrie shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are
valiant to our selves, and theres an end.
1.
Nay, then we must be valiant; O my ribbes.
2.
O my small guts, a plague upon these sharpe toe'd shooes, they
are murderers.
_Exeunt_.
_Enter Arbaces with his Sword drawne_.
_Arb_.
It is resolv'd, I bore it whilst I could,
I can no more, Hell open all thy gates,
And I will thorough them; if they be shut,
Ile batter um, but I will find the place
Where the most damn'd have dwelling; ere I end,
Amongst them all they shall not have a sinne,
But I may call it mine: I must beginne
With murder of my friend, and so goe on
To an incestuous ravishing, and end
My life and sinnes with a forbidden blow
Upon my selfe.
_Enter Mardonius_.
_Mardo_.
What Tragedie is here?
That hand was never wont to draw a Sword,
But it cride dead to something:
_Arb_.
_Mar_. have you bid _Gobrius_ come?
_Mar_.
How doe you Sir?
_Arb_.
Well, is he comming?
_Mar_.
Why Sir are you thus?
Why does your hand proclaime a lawlesse warre
Against your selfe?
_Arb_.
Thou answerest me one question with another,
Is _Gobrius_ comming?
_Mar_.
Sir he is. _Arb_. Tis well.
_Mar_.
I can forbeare your questions then, be gone
Sir, I have markt.
_Arb_.
Marke lesse, it troubles you and me.
_Mar_.
You are more variable then you were.
_Arb_.
It may be so.
_Mar_.
To day no Hermit could be humblier
Then you were to us all.
_Arb_.
And what of this?
_Mar_.
And now you take new rage into your eies,
As you would looke us all out of the Land.
_Arb_.
I doe confesse it, will that satisfie,
I prethee get thee gone.
_Mar_.
Sir I will speake.
_Arb_.
Will ye?
_Mar_.
It is my dutie,
I feare you will kill your selfe: I am a subject,
And you shall doe me wrong in't: tis my cause,
And I may speake.
_Arb_.
Thou art not traind in sinne,
It seemes _Mardonius_: kill my selfe, by heaven
I will not doe it yet; and when I will,
Ile tell thee then: I shall be such a creature,
That thou wilt give me leave without a word.
There is a method in mans wickednesse,
It growes up by degrees; I am not come
So high as killing of my selfe, there are
A hundred thousand sinnes twixt me and it,
Which I must doe, I shall come toot at last;
But take my oath not now, be satisfied,
And get thee hence.
_Mar_.