_Menti._ Nor am I: the satisfaction which I bring Sir, is to you; You are a Gentleman ne'er injur'd me; One ever lov'd my Father, the right way, And most approv'd of noble amity. Yet I have run my sword quite through your heart, And slightly hurt your son; for't may be [f]ear'd, A grief ta'en at these years for your sons loss, May hazard yours: And therefore I am sent By him that has most interest in your sorrow; Who having chid me almost to the ruin Of a disheritance, for violating So continued and so sacred a friendship Of 50 Winters standing: such a friendship, That ever did continue like the spring; Ne'er saw the fall o'th' leaf; by him I am sent To say the wrong I have done Sir, is to you: And that I have quite lost him for a Father, Until I find your pardon; nay there follows A weightier deprivation; his Estate I could with a less number of sighs part with. Fortune might attend my youth, and my deservings In any Climate: but a Fathers blessing, To settle and confirm that fortune, no where; But only here. Your pardon, give me that; And when you have done, kill me; for 'tis that Takes from me the effect of excommunication; A Fathers heavy curse. _Alber._ Nay, may that curse Light on himself, for sending thee in this minute: When I am grown as deaf to all compassion, As the cruellest Sea-fight, or most horrid tempest. That I had drown'd i'th' Sea a thousand duckets, Thou hadst not made this visit: rash young man, Thou tak'st me in an ill Planet, and hast cause To curse thy Father; for I do protest, If I had met thee in any part o'th' World, But under my own roofe, I would have kill'd thee. _Within there._--_Enter_ Physitian, Chirurgion, _and_ Servants. Look you! Here's a triumph sent for the death of your young Master. _Serv._ Shall we kill him? _Alber._ No, I'll not be so unhospitable; but Sir, By my life, I vow to take assurance from you, That right hand never more shall strike my son. _Menti._ That will be easily protested. _Alber._ Not easily, when it must be exacted, and a bloody seal to't. Bind him, and cut off's right hand presently: Fair words shall never satisfie foul deeds. Chop's hand off. _Menti._ You cannot be so unrighteous, to your own honor. _Phy._ O Sir, collect your self; And recall your bloody purpose. _Alber._ My intents of this nature, do ever come to action. _Chirur._ Then I must fetch another stickler.-- [_Exit._ _Alber._ Yet I do grieve at heart; And I do curse thy Father heartily, That's the cause of my dishonor; sending thee In such an hour, when I am apt for mischief: Apt, as a Dutchman after a Sea-fight, When his enemy kneels afore him; come dispatch. _Phys._ Intreat him, Noble Sir.