And now you take new rage into your eies, As you would looke us all out of the Land. _Arb_. I doe confesse it, will that satisfie, I prethee get thee gone. _Mar_. Sir I will speake. _Arb_. Will ye? _Mar_. It is my dutie, I feare you will kill your selfe: I am a subject, And you shall doe me wrong in't: tis my cause, And I may speake. _Arb_. Thou art not traind in sinne, It seemes _Mardonius_: kill my selfe, by heaven I will not doe it yet; and when I will, Ile tell thee then: I shall be such a creature, That thou wilt give me leave without a word. There is a method in mans wickednesse, It growes up by degrees; I am not come So high as killing of my selfe, there are A hundred thousand sinnes twixt me and it, Which I must doe, I shall come toot at last; But take my oath not now, be satisfied, And get thee hence. _Mar_. I am sorrie tis so ill. _Arb_. Be sorrie then, True sorrow is alone, grieve by thy selfe. _Mar_. I pray you let mee see your sword put up Before I goe; Ile leave you then. _Arb_. Why so? What follie is this in thee? is it not As apt to mischiefe as it was before? Can I not reach it thinkest thou? these are toyes For children to be pleas'd with, and not men; Now I am safe you thinke: I would the booke Of Fate were here, my sword is not so sure, But I should get it out, and mangle that That all the destinies should quite forget Their fix't decrees, and hast to make us new Farre other Fortunes mine could not be worse, Wilt thou now leave me? _Mar_. God put into your bosome temperate thoughts, He leave you though I feare. _Exit_. _Arb_. Goe, thou art honest, Why should the hastie errors of my youth Be so unpardonable, to draw a sinne Helpelesse upon me? _Enter Gobrius_. _Gob_. There is the King, now it is ripe. _Arb_. Draw neere thou guiltie man, That are the author of the loathedst crime Five ages have brought forth, and heare me speake Curses incurable, and all the evils Mans bodie or his spirit can receive Be with thee. _Gob_. Why Sir doe you curse me thus? _Arb_. Why doe I curse thee, if there be a man Subtill in curses, that exceedes the rest, His worst wish on thee. Thou hast broke my hart. _Gob_. How Sir? Have I preserv'd you from a childe, From all the arrowes, malice or ambition Could shoot at you, and have I this for pay? _Arb_. Tis true thou didst preserve me, and in that Wert crueller then hardned murderers Of infants and their mothers; thou didst save me Onely till thou hadst studdied out a way How to destroy me cunningly thy selfe: This was a curious way of torturing. _Gob_. What doe you meane? _Arb_.