Arb.

  Will ye?

Mar.

  It is my duty.  I fear you will kill your self:  I am a subject,
  and you shall do me wrong in’t:  ’tis my cause, and I may speak.

Arb.

Thou art not train’d in sin, it seems Mardonius:  kill my self! by Heaven I will not do it yet; and when I will, I’le tell thee then:  I shall be such a creature, that thou wilt give me leave without a word.  There is a method in mans wickedness, it grows up by degrees:  I am not come so high as killing of my self, there are a hundred thousand sins ’twixt me and it, which I must doe, and I shall come to’t at last; but take my oath not now, be satisfied, and get thee hence.

Mar.

  I am sorry ’tis so ill.

Arb.

  Be sorry then, true sorrow is alone, grieve by thy
  self.

Mar.

  I pray you let me see your Sword put up before I go:  I’le leave
  you then.

Arb.

Why so? what folly is this in thee, is it not as apt to mischief as it was before? can I not reach it thinkst thou? these are toyes for Children to be pleas’d with, and not men, now I am safe you think:  I would the book of fate were here, my Sword is not so sure but I would get it out and mangle that, that all the destinies should quite forget their fixt decrees, and hast to make us new, for other fortunes, mine could not be worse, wilt thou now leave me?

Mar.

  Heaven put into your bosome temperate thoughts, I’le leave you
  though I fear.

Arb.

  Go, thou art honest, why should the hasty error of my youth be so
  unpardonable to draw a sin helpless upon me?

  Enter Gobrias.

Gob.

  There is the King, now it is ripe.

Arb.

Draw near thou guilty man, that art the authour of the loathedst crime five ages have brought forth, and hear me speak; curses more incurable, and all the evils mans body or his Spirit can receive be with thee.

Gob.

  Why Sir do you curse me thus?

Arb.

  Why do I curse thee? if there be a man subtil in curses, that
  exceeds the rest, his worst wish on thee, thou hast broke my
  heart.

Gob.

  How Sir, have I preserv’d you from a child, from all the arrows,
  malice, or ambition could shoot at you, and have I this for my
  pay?

Arb.

’Tis true, thou didst preserve me, and in that wert crueller than hardned murtherers of infants and their Mothers! thou didst save me only till thou hadst studied out a way how to destroy me cunningly thy self:  this was a curious way of torturing.

Gob.

  What do you mean?

Arb.