FAB. I will not for the mines of all the earth, Unless thou give me liberty to see Seven years more, before thou seize on me. COR. Fabel, I give it thee. FAB. Swear, damned fiend. COR. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee, Till seven years from this hour be full expir'd. FAB. Enough, come out. COR. A vengeance take thy art! Live and convert all piety to evil: Never did man thus overreach the devil. No time on earth, like Phaetonic flames, Can have perpetual being. I'll return To my infernal mansion: but be sure, Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry; But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabel carry. FAB. Then thus between us two this variance ends; Thou to thy fellow-fiends, I to my friends. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, DORCAS _his lady_, MILLICENT _his daughter, young_ HARRY CLARE; _the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and_ _safeguards;_[241] BLAGUE, _the merry host of the_ _George, comes in with them_. HOST. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room is[242] the very Homer and Iliads of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the centre, and I drink ne'er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maidenheads: what? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.[243] CLARE. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague! Thou hast a good seat here. HOST. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian[244] nor a carrier shall breathe upon your geldings: they have villanous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen. Knights and lords, too, have been drunk in my house, I thank the Destinies. H. CLARE. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these rushes.[245] HOST. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest? H. CLARE. Away, you stale mess of white broth! Come hither, sister, let me help you. CLARE. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according to our appointment, when we last dined here? HOST. The knight's not yet apparent. Marry, here's a forerunner that summons a parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and top-gallant presently. CLARE. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be provided.