No. _Arb_. You must be crossing me. _Mar_. I have no letters Sir to anger you, But a dry sonnet of my Corporals To an old Suttlers wife, and that I'll burn, Sir. 'Tis like to prove a fine age for the Ignorant. _Arb_. How darst 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 doe, 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 vertues out of a flood of humors, 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 rot Into a deep sleep, and the Kingdom with you, Till forraign swords be in your throats, and slaughter Be every where about you like your flatterers. Do, kill me. _Arb_. Prethee be tamer, good _Mardonius,_ Thou know'st I love thee, nay I honour thee, Believe it good old Souldier, I am thine; But I am rack'd clean from my self, bear with me, Woot 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 vertue, 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 vertue and beauty, Your mournfull Sister. _Arb_. She is in prison, _Gobrias,_ is she not? _Gob_. She is Sir, till your pleasure to enlarge her, Which on my knees I beg. Oh 'tis not fit, That all the sweetness of the world in one, The youth and vertue that would tame wild Tygers, And wilder people, that have known no manners, Should live thus cloistred up; for your loves sake, If there be any in that noble heart, To her a wretched Lady, and forlorn, Or for her love to you, which is as much As nature and obedience ever gave, Have pity on her beauties. _Arb_. Pray thee stand up; 'Tis true, she is too fair, And all these commendations but her own, Would thou had'st never so commended her, Or I nere liv'd to have heard it _Gobrias;_ If thou but know'st the wrong her beautie does her, Thou wouldst in pity of her be a lyar, Thy ignorance has drawn me wretched man, Whither my self nor thou canst well tell: O my fate! I think she loves me, but I fear another Is deeper in her heart: How thinkst thou _Gobrias_? _Gob_. I do beseech your Grace believe it not, For let me perish if it be not false. Good Sir, read her Letter. _Mar_.