_Fr._ Thou hadst wickedness enough to make them stare, And be afraid o' thee, malicious devil; And draw thy sword, for by _Maria's_ soul; I will not let thee scape to do more mischief. _Wild._ Thou art mad, what dost mean? _Fr._ To kill thee, nothing else will ease my anger, The injury is fresh, I bleed withal, Nor can that word express it, theres no peace in't, Nor must it be forgiven, but in death; Therefore call up thy valour, if thou'st any. And summon up thy spirits to defend thee; Thy heart must suffer for thy damn'd practises, Against thy noble cosin, and my innocence. _Wild._ Hold, hear a word; did I do any thing But for your good, that you might have her, That in that desperate time I might redeem her, Although with shew of loss. _Fr._ Out ugly villain, Fling on her the most hated name of whore To the worlds eye, and face it out in courtesie, Bring him to see't, and make me drunk to attempt it. _Enter_ Maria. _Ma._ I hear some voices this way. _Fr._ No more, if you can pray, do it as you fight. _Ma._ What new frights oppose me? I have heard that tongue. _Wild._ 'Tis my fortune. You could not take me in a better time, Sir, I ha nothing to lose but the love I lent thee, My life my sword protect. _Ma._ I know 'em both, but to prevent their ruines, Must not discover--stay men most desperate; The mischief you are forward to commit Will keep me from my grave, and tie my spirit To endless troubles else. _Wild._ Ha, 'tis her Ghost. _Fr. Maria?_ _Ma._ Hear me both, each wound you make Runs through my soul, and is a new death to me, Each threatening danger will affright my rest; Look on me _Hartlove_, and my kinsman view me; Was I not late in my unhappy marriage, Sufficient miserable? full of all misfortunes? But you must add, with your most impious angers, Unto my sleeping dust this insolence? Would you teach time to speak eternally Of my disgraces; make Records to keep 'em, Keep them in brass? fight then, and kill my honor; Fight deadly both, and let your bloody swords, Through my reviv'd, and reeking infamy (That never shall be purg'd) find your own ruines: _Hartlove_, I lov'd thee once, and hop'd again In a more blessed love to meet thy spirit, If thou kill'st him, thou art a murtherer, And murther shall never inherit heaven: My time is come, my concealed grave expects me, Farewel, and follow not, your feet are bloody, And will pollute my peace: I hope they are melted, This is my way sure. [_Exit._ _Fr._ Stay blessed soul. _Wi._ Would she had come sooner, and ha sav'd some blood. _Fr._ Dost bleed? _Wild._ Yes certainly, I can both see and feel it.