_Arb_. Wilt thou, do'st thou make no more on't? Bes. More? no, why is there any thing else? if there be, it shall be done too. _Arb_. Hast thou no greater sense of such a sin? Thou art too wicked for my company, Though I have hell within me, thou may'st yet Corrupt me further: pray thee answer me, How do I shew to thee after this motion? _Bes_. Why your Majesty looks as well in my opinion, as ever you did since you were born. _Arb_. But thou appear'st to me after thy grant, The ugliest, loathed detestable thing That I ever met with. Thou hast eyes Like the flames of _Sulphur_, which me thinks do dart Infection on me, and thou hast a mouth Enough to take me in where there do stand Four rows of Iron Teeth. _Bes_. I feel no such thing, but 'tis no matter how I look, Pie do my business as well as they that look better, and when this is dispatch'd, if you have a mind to your Mother, tell me, and you shall see I'le set it hard. _Arb_. My Mother! Heaven forgive me to hear this, I am inspir'd with horrour: now I hate thee Worse than my sin, which if I could come by Should suffer death Eternal ne're to rise In any breast again. Know I will die Languishing mad, as I resolve, I shall, E're I will deal by such an instrument: Thou art too sinful to imploy in this; Out of the World, away. _Bes_. What do you mean, Sir? _Arb_. Hung round with Curses, take thy fearful flight Into the Desarts, where 'mongst all the Monsters If thou find'st one so beastly as thy self, Thou shalt be held as innocent. _Bes_. Good Sir. _Arb_. If there were no such instruments as thou, We Kings could never act such wicked deeds: Seek out a man that mocks Divinity, That breaks each precept both of God and man, And natures too, and does it without lust, Meerly because it is a law, and good, And live with him: for him thou canst not spoil. Away I say, I will not do this sin. [_Exit_ Bessus. I'le press it here, till it do break my breast, It heaves to get out, but thou art a sin, And spight of torture I will keep thee in. _ACTUS QUARTUS_. _Enter_ Gobrias, Panthea, _and_ Spaconia. _Gob_. Have you written Madam? _Pan_. Yes, good _Gobrias_. _Gob_. And with a kindness, and such winning words As may provoke him, at one instant feel His double fault, your wrong, and his own rashness? _Pan_. I have sent words enough, if words may win him From his displeasure; and such words I hope, As shall gain much upon his goodness, _Gobrias_. Yet fearing they are many, and a womans, A poor belief may follow, I have woven As many truths within 'em to speak for me, That if he be but gracious, and receive 'em-- _Gob_.