_Physi._ 'Tis but a scratch, nothing to danger. _Claris._ But he receiv'd it from a friend, And the unkindness ta'en at that, may kill him. _Mari._ Let me see him: _Physi._ By no means, he slumbers. _Mari._ Then I cannot believe you, When you tell me there's hope of him. _Alber._ Yet many Ladies Do give more faith to their Physitian Than to their Confessor. _Claris._ O my poor lost brother, And friend more dear than Brother. _Alber._ More loud instruments To disturb his slumbers! goe, goe, take Caroch: And as you love me, you and the Girle retire To our Summer house, i'th' Country; I'll be with you Within these two days. _Maria._ I am yours in all things, Though with much sorrow to leave him. [_Exeunt_ Maria, Claris. _Alber._ I pray you Gentlemen, With best observance tend your Patient; The loss of my heir-male, lies now a bleeding. _Enter_ Mentivole. And think what payment his recovery Shall show'r upon you, Of all men breathing; [_Exeunt_ Physitian, Chirur. Wherefore do you arrive here? Are you mad? My injury begins to bleed afresh At sight of you; why this affront of yours I receive more malitious than the other. Your hurt was only danger to my son: But your sight to me is death; Why come you hither? Do you come to view the wounds, which you have made? And glory in them? _Menti._ Rather worthy Sir, to pour Oyl into them. _Alber._ I am a Soldier Sir, Least part of a Courtier, and understand By your smooth Oyl, Your present flattery. _Menti._ Sir, for my Fathers sake acknowledge me To be born a Gentleman, no slave; I ever Held flatterers of that breed; do not misconstrue In your distaste of me, the true intent Of my coming hither, for I do protest I do not come to tell you I am sorry For your sons hurt. _Alber._ Not sorry? _Menti._ No not sorry; I have to the lowest ebbe, lost all my fury: But I must not lose my honesty; 'twas he Gave heat unto the injury, which return'd (Like a Petar, ill lighted, into 'th' bosome Of him, gave fire to't) yet I hope his hurt, Is not so dangerous, but he may recover; When if it please him, call me to account, For the loss of so much blood, I shall be ready To do him noble reason. _Alber._ You are arm'd me thinks with wondrous confidence. _Menti._ O with the best Sir; For I bring penitence, and satisfaction. _Alber._ Satisfaction? Why I heard you say but now, You were not sorry for his wounds.