_Arb_.

I have found it out, this woman carries letters.

_Mar_.

If this hold, 'twill be an ill world for Bawdes, Chamber-maids and Post-boyes, I thank heaven I have none I but his letters patents, things of his own enditing.

_Arb_.

Prince, this cunning cannot do't.

_Tigr_.

Doe, What Sir? I reach you not.

_Arb_.

It shall not serve your turn, Prince.

_Tigr_.

Serve my turn Sir?

_Arb_.

I Sir, it shall not serve your turn.

_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?_