Mar.

  Would Bessus were here to take her aside and search her, He
  would quickly tell you what she carried Sir.

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?