My Lord, this is foul play i'faith, to put a fresh man upon us, men are but men Sir. _Bac_. That jest shall save your bones; Captain, Rally up your rotten Regiment and be gone: I had rather thrash than be bound to kick these Rascals, till they cry'd ho; _Bessus_ you may put your hand to them now, and then you are quit. Farewel, as you like this, pray visit me again, 'twill keep me in good health. [_Exit_ Bac. _2 Sword_. H'as a devilish hard foot, I never felt the like. _1 Sword_. Nor I, and yet I am sure I have felt a hundred. _2 Sword_. If he kick thus i'th' Dog-daies, he will be dry foundred: what cure now Captain besides Oyl of Baies? _Bes_. Why well enough I warrant you, you can go. _2 Sword_. Yes, heaven be thanked; but I feel a shrowd ach, sure h'as sprang my huckle-bone. _1 Sword_. I ha' lost a hanch. _Bes_. A little butter, friend a little butter, butter and parseley and a soveraign matter: _probatum est_. _2 Sword_. Captain we must request your hand now to our honours. _Bes_. Yes marry shall ye, and then let all the world come, we are valiant to our selves, and there's an end. _1 Sword_. Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs. _2 Sword_. O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are murtherers. [_Exeunt clear_. _Enter_ Arbaces _with his sword drawn_. _Arb_. It is resolv'd, I bare it whilst I could, I can no more, I must begin with murther of my friends, and so go on to that incestuous ravishing, and end my life and sins with a forbidden blow, upon my self. _Enter_ Mardonius. _Mar_. What Tragedy is near? That hand was never wont to draw a sword, but it cry'd dead to something. _Arb_. _Mardonius_, have you bid _Gobrias_ come? _Mar_. How do you Sir? _Arb_. Well, is he coming? _Mar_. Why Sir, are you thus? why do your hands proclaim a lawless War against your self? _Arb_. Thou answerest me one question with an other, is _Gobrias_ coming? _Mar_. Sir he is. _Arb_. 'Tis well, I can forbear your questions then, be gone. _Mar_. Sir, I have mark't. _Arb_. Mark less, it troubles you and me. _Mar_. You are more variable than you were. _Arb_. It may be so. _Mar_. To day no Hermit could be humbler than you were to us all. _Arb_. And what of this? _Mar_. And now you take new rage into your eyes, as you would look us all out of the Land. _Arb_. I do confess it, will that satisfie? I prethee get thee gone. _Mar_. Sir, I will speak. _Arb_. Will ye? _Mar_. It is my duty. I fear you will kill your self: I am a subject, and you shall do me wrong in't: 'tis my cause, and I may speak. _Arb_.