A King, and No King - LightNovelsOnl.com
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_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 pa.s.sions: 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 s.h.i.+ne 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?_
