Enter Mardonius.

Mardo.

  What Tragedie is here? 
  That hand was never wont to draw a Sword,
  But it cride dead to something: 

Arb.

  Mar. have you bid Gobrius come?

Mar.

  How doe you Sir?

Arb.

  Well, is he comming?

Mar.

  Why Sir are you thus? 
  Why does your hand proclaime a lawlesse warre
  Against your selfe?

Arb.

  Thou answerest me one question with another,
  Is Gobrius comming?

Mar.

  Sir he is. Arb.  Tis well.

Mar.

  I can forbeare your questions then, be gone
  Sir, I have markt.

Arb.

  Marke lesse, it troubles you and me.

Mar.

  You are more variable then you were.

Arb.

  It may be so.

Mar.

  To day no Hermit could be humblier
  Then you were to us all.

Arb.

  And what of this?

Mar.

  And now you take new rage into your eies,
  As you would looke us all out of the Land.

Arb.

I doe confesse it, will that satisfie,
I prethee get thee gone.

Mar.

  Sir I will speake.

Arb.

  Will ye?

Mar.

  It is my dutie,
  I feare you will kill your selfe:  I am a subject,
  And you shall doe me wrong in’t:  tis my cause,
  And I may speake.

Arb.

  Thou art not traind in sinne,
  It seemes Mardonius:  kill my selfe, by heaven
  I will not doe it yet; and when I will,
  Ile tell thee then:  I shall be such a creature,
  That thou wilt give me leave without a word. 
  There is a method in mans wickednesse,
  It growes up by degrees; I am not come
  So high as killing of my selfe, there are
  A hundred thousand sinnes twixt me and it,
  Which I must doe, I shall come toot at last;
  But take my oath not now, be satisfied,
  And get thee hence.

Mar.

  I am sorrie tis so ill.

Arb.

  Be sorrie then,
  True sorrow is alone, grieve by thy selfe.

Mar.

  I pray you let mee see your sword put up
  Before I goe; Ile leave you then.

Arb.

  Why so? 
  What follie is this in thee? is it not
  As apt to mischiefe as it was before? 
  Can I not reach it thinkest thou? these are toyes
  For children to be pleas’d with, and not men;
  Now I am safe you thinke:  I would the booke
  Of Fate were here, my sword is not so sure,
  But I should get it out, and mangle that
  That all the destinies should quite forget
  Their fix’t decrees, and hast to make us new
  Farre other Fortunes mine could not be worse,
  Wilt thou now leave me?