2 Sword.

  H’as a devilish hard foot, I never felt the like.

1 Sword.

  Nor I, and yet I am sure I have felt a hundred.

2 Sword.

  If he kick thus i’th’ Dog-daies, he will be dry foundred:  what
  cure now Captain besides Oyl of Baies?

Bes.

  Why well enough I warrant you, you can go.

2 Sword.

  Yes, heaven be thanked; but I feel a shrowd ach, sure h’as sprang
  my huckle-bone.

1 Sword.

  I ha’ lost a hanch.

Bes.

  A little butter, friend a little butter, butter and parseley and
  a soveraign matter:  probatum est.

2 Sword.

  Captain we must request your hand now to our honours.

Bes.

  Yes marry shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are
  valiant to our selves, and there’s an end.

1 Sword.

Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs.

2 Sword.

O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are
murtherers.

[Exeunt clear.

Enter Arbaces with his sword drawn.

Arb.

It is resolv’d, I bare it whilst I could, I can no more, I must begin with murther of my friends, and so go on to that incestuous ravishing, and end my life and sins with a forbidden blow, upon my self.

  Enter Mardonius.

Mar.

  What Tragedy is near?  That hand was never wont to draw a sword,
  but it cry’d dead to something.

Arb.

  Mardonius, have you bid Gobrias come?

Mar.

  How do you Sir?

Arb.

  Well, is he coming?

Mar.

  Why Sir, are you thus? why do your hands proclaim a lawless War
  against your self?

Arb.

  Thou answerest me one question with an other, is Gobrias
  coming?

Mar.

  Sir he is.

Arb.

  ’Tis well, I can forbear your questions then, be gone.

Mar.

  Sir, I have mark’t.

Arb.

  Mark less, it troubles you and me.

Mar.

  You are more variable than you were.

Arb.

  It may be so.

Mar.

  To day no Hermit could be humbler than you were to us all.

Arb.

  And what of this?

Mar.

  And now you take new rage into your eyes, as you would look us
  all out of the Land.

Arb.

  I do confess it, will that satisfie?  I prethee get thee gone.

Mar.

  Sir, I will speak.