Tig.

  Get you about your businesse to Arbaces,
  Now you talke idlie.

Lig.

  Yes Sir, I will goe. 
  And shall she be a Queene, she had more wit
  Then her old Father when she ranne away: 
  Shall shee be a Queene, now by my troth tis fine,
  Ile dance out of all measure at her wedding: 
  Shall I not Sir?

Tigr.

  Yes marrie shalt thou.

Lig.

  He make these witherd Kexes beare my bodie
  Two houres together above ground.

Tigr.

  Nay, goe, my businesse requires haste.

Lig.

  Good God preserve you, you are an excellent King.

Spa.

Farewell good Father.

Lig.

Farewell sweete vertuous Daughter;
I never was so joyfull in my life,
That I remember:  shall shee be a Queene? 
Now I perceive a man may weepe for joy,
I had thought they had lied that said so.

Exit.

Tig.

Come my deare love.

Spa.

But you may see another
May alter that againe.

Tigr.

Urge it no more; I have made up a new strong constancie, Not to be shooke with eyes; I know I have The passions of a man, but if I meete With any subject that shall hold my eyes More firmely then is fit; Ile thinke of thee, and runne away from it:  let that suffice.

Exeunt.

Enter Bacurius, and a servant.

Bac.

Three gentlemen without to speake with me?

Ser.

Yes Sir.

Bac.

  Let them come in.

Ser.

  They are enterd Sir already.

Enter Bessus, and Swordmen.

Bac.

  Now fellowes, your busines, are these the Gentlemen.

Bess.

  My Lord I have made bold to bring these Gentlemen my Friends ath’
  sword along with me.

Bac.

  I am afraid youle fight then.

Bes.

  My good Lord I will not, your Lordship is mistaken,
  Feare not Lord.

Bac.

  Sir I am sorrie fort.

Bes.

  I can aske no more in honor, Gentlemen you heare my Lord is sorrie.

Bac.

Not that I have beaten you, but beaten one that will be beaten:  one whose dull bodie will require launcing:  As surfeits doe the diet, spring and full.  Now to your swordmen, what come they for good Captaine Stock-fish?

Bes.

  It seemes your Lordship has forgot my name.

Bac.

  No, nor your nature neither, though they are things fitter I
  confesse for anything, then my remembrance, or anie honestmans,
  what shall these billets doe, be pilde up in my Wood-yard?