Hip. He mocks me too, most basely.

Zen. Did ye faith? did ye forget so far?

Arn. Come, come, no weeping;
I would have lyen first in my grave, believe that. 
Why will you ask those things you would not hear? 
She is too untemperate to betray my vertues,
Too openly lascivious:  had she dealt
But with that seeming modesty she might,
And flung a little Art upon her ardor,
But ’twas forgot, and I forgot to like her,
And glad I was deceiv’d.  No my Zenocia,
My first love here begun, rests here unreapt yet,
And here for ever.

Zen. You have made me happy, Even in the midst of bondage blest.

Zab. You see now What rubs are in your way.

Hip. And quickly Zabulon I’le root ’em out.—­Be sure you do this presently.

Zab. Do not you alter then.

Hip. I am resolute. [Exit Zabulon.

Arn. To see you only I came hither last, Drawn by no love of hers, nor base allurements, For by this holy light I hate her heartily.

Leop. I am glad of that, you have sav’d me so much vengeance
And so much fear,
From this hour fair befal you.

Arn. Some means I shall make shortly to redeem you, Till when, observe her well, and fit her temper, Only her lust contemn.

Zen. When shall I see you?

Arn. I will live hereabouts, and bear her fair still, Till I can find a fit hour to redeem you.

Hip. Shut all the doors.

Arn. Who’s that?

Zen. We are betray’d, The Lady of the house has heard our parly, Seen us, and seen our Loves.

Hip. You courteous Gallant,
You that scorn all I can bestow, that laugh at
The afflictions, and the groans I suffer for you,
That slight and jeer my love, contemn the fortune
My favours can fling on you, have I caught you? 
Have I now found the cause? ye fool my wishes;
Is mine own slave, my bane?  I nourish that
That sucks up my content.  I’le pray no more,
Nor wooe no more; thou shalt see foolish man,
And to thy bitter pain and anguish, look on
The vengeance I shall take, provok’d and slighted;
Redeem her then, and steal her hence:  ho Zabulon
Now to your work.

Enter Zabulon, and Servants, some holding Arnoldo, some ready with a cord to strangle Zenocia.

Arn. Lady, but hear me speak first, As you have pity.

Hip. I have none.  You taught me, When I even hung about your neck, you scorn’d me.

Zab. Shall we pluck yet?

Hip. No, hold a little Zabulon, I’le pluck his heart-strings first:  now am I worthy A little of your love?

Arn. I’le be your Servant, Command me through what danger you shall aime at, Let it be death.