Arb. This woman shall carry no more letters back to your love Panthea; by Heaven she shall not; I say she shall not.

Mar. This would make a saint swear like a soldier, and a soldier like Termagant.

Tigr. This beats me more, king, than the blows you gave me.

Arb. Take ’em away both, and together let them prisoners be, strictly and closely kept; or, sirrah, your life shall answer it; and let nobody speak with ’em hereafter.

Tigr. Well, I am subject to you,
And must endure these passions.

Spa. This is th’ imprisonment I have look’d for always,
And the dear place I would choose.

[Exeunt Tigranes, Spaconia, Bacurius.

Mar. Sir, have you done well now?

Arb. Dare you reprove it?

Mar. No.

Arb. You must be crossing me.

Mar. I have no letters, sir, to anger you,
But a dry sonnet of my corporal’s,
To an old sutler’s wife; and that I’ll burn, sir.
’Tis like to prove a fine age for the ignorant.

Arb. How dar’st thou so often forfeit thy life?
Thou know’st ’tis in my power to take it.

Mar. Yes, and I know you wo’ not; or, if you do, you’ll miss it quickly.

Arb. Why?

Mar. Who shall tell you of these childish follies, when I am dead? who shall put-to his power to draw those virtues out of a flood of humours, when they are drown’d, and make ’em shine again? No, cut my head off: Then you may talk, and be believed, and grow worse, and have your too self-glorious temper rock’d into a dead sleep, and the kingdom with you; till foreign swords be in your throats, and slaughter be everywhere about you, like your flatterers. Do, kill me!

Arb. Pr’ythee, be tamer, good Mardonius.
Thou know’st I love thee; nay, I honour thee;
Believe it, good old soldier, I am thine:
But I am rack’d clean from myself! Bear with me,
Woo’t thou bear with me, my Mardonius?

Enter GOBRIAS.

Mar. There comes a good man; love him too; he’s temperate; you may live to have need of such a virtue: Rage is not still in fashion.

Arb. Welcome, good Gobrias.

Gob. My service, and this letter, to your grace.

Arb. From whom?

Gob. From the rich mine of virtue and beauty,
Your mournful sister.

Arb. She is in prison, Gobrias, is she not?