Lig.

  I have another, but a worse; I am asham’d, it is a businesse.—­

Mar.

  You serve a worthy person, and a stranger I am sure you are; you
  may imploy mee if you please, without your purse, such Officers
  should ever be their owne rewards.

Lig.

  I am bound to your noblenesse.

Mar.

  I may have neede of you, and then this curtesie,
  If it be any, is not ill bestowed: 
  But may I civilly desire the rest? 
  I shall not be a hurter, if no helper.

Lig.

  Sir, you shall know I have lost a foolish daughter,
  And with her all my patience; pilferd away
  By a meane Captaine of your Kings.

Mar.

  Stay there Sir: 
  If he have reacht the noble worth of Captaine,
  He may well claime a worthy gentlewoman,
  Though shee were yours, and noble.

Lig.

  I grant all that too:  but this wretched fellow
  Reaches no further then the emptie name,
  That serves to feede him; were he valiant,
  Or had but in him any noble nature,
  That might hereafter promise him a good man;
  My cares were something lighter, and my grave
  A span yet from me.

Mar.

  I confesse such fellowes
  Be in all royall Campes, and have, and must be
  To make the sinne of coward more detested
  In the meane Souldier, that with such a foyle
  Sets of much valour:  By description
  I should now guesse him to you.  It was Bessus,
  I dare almost with confidence pronounce it.

Lig.

  Tis such a scurvy name as Bessus, and now I thinke tis hee.

Mar.

  Captaine, doe you call him? 
  Beleeve me Sir, you have a miserie
  Too mighty for your age:  A pox upon him,
  For that must be the end of all his service: 
  Your daughter was not mad Sir?

Lig.

  No, would shee had beene,
  The fault had had more credit:  I would doe something.

Mar.

  I would faine counsell you; but to what I know not: 
  Hee’s so below a beating, that the women
  Find him not worthy of their distaves; and
  To hang him, were to cast away a rope,
  Hee’s such an ayrie thin unbodied coward,
  That no revenge can catch him: 
  He tell you Sir, and tell you truth; this rascall
  Feares neither God nor man, has beene so beaten: 
  Sufferance has made him wanscote; he has had
  Since hee was first a slave, at least three hundred daggers
  Set in his head, as little boyes doe new knives in hot meat;
  Ther’s not a rib in’s bodie a my conscience,
  That has not beene thrice broken with drie beating;
  And now his sides looke like to wicker targets,
  Everie way bended: 
  Children will shortly take him for a wall,
  And set their stone-bowes in his forhead:  is of so low a sence,
  I cannot in a weeke imagine what should be done to him.