My Lord. _Bac_. Unbuckle I say, and give it me, or as I live, thy head will ake extreamly. _Bes_. It is a pretty Hilt, and if your Lordship take an affection to it, with all my heart I present it to you for a New-years-gift. _Bac_. I thank you very heartily, sweet Captain, farewel. _Bes_. One word more, I beseech your Lordship to render me my knife again. _Bac_. Marry by all means Captain; cherish your self with it, and eat hard, good Captain; we cannot tell whether we shall have any more such: Adue dear Captain. [_Exit_ Bac. _Bes_. I will make better use of this, than of my Sword: A base spirit has this vantage of a brave one, it keeps alwayes at a stay, nothing brings it down, not beating. I remember I promis'd the King in a great Audience, that I would make my back-biters eat my sword to a knife; how to get another sword I know not, nor know any means left for me to maintain my credit, but impudence: therefore I will out-swear him and all his followers, that this is all that's left uneaten of my sword. [_Exit_ Bessus. _Enter_ Mardonius. _Mar_. I'le move the King, he is most strangely alter'd; I guess the cause I fear too right, Heaven has some secret end in't, and 'tis a scourge no question justly laid upon him: he has followed me through twenty Rooms; and ever when I stay to wait his command, he blushes like a Girl, and looks upon me, as if modesty kept in his business: so turns away from me, but if I go on, he follows me again. _Enter_ Arbaces. See, here he is. I do not use this, yet I know not how, I cannot chuse but weep to see him; his very Enemies I think, whose wounds have bred his fame, if they should see him now, would find tears i'their eyes. _Arb_. I cannot utter it, why should I keep A breast to harbour thoughts? I dare not speak. Darkness is in my bosom, and there lie A thousand thoughts that cannot brook the light: How wilt thou vex 'em when this deed is done, Conscience, that art afraid to let me name it? _Mar_. How do you Sir? _Arb_. Why very well _Mardonius_, how dost thou do? _Mar_. Better than you I fear. _Arb_. I hope thou art; for to be plain with thee, Thou art in Hell else, secret scorching flames That far transcend earthly material fires Are crept into me, and there is no cure. Is it not strange _Mardonius_, there's no cure? _Mar_. Sir, either I mistake, or there is something hid That you would utter to me. _Arb_. So there is, but yet I cannot do it. _Mar_.