King. My hot-brain’d Sir, I’ll talk to you anon.
Men. Sir, I am wrong’d, and will appeal to Rome.
Phil. By Heav’n, I’ll to the Camp—Brother, farewel,
When next I meet thee, it shall be in Arms,
If thou can’st get loose from thy Mistress’ Chains,
Where thou ly’st drown’d in idle wanton Love.
Abd. Hah—his Mistress—who is’t Prince Philip means?
Phil. Thy Wife, thy Wife, proud Moor, whom thou’rt content To sell for Honour to eternal Infamy— Does’t make thee snarl?—Bite on, whilst thou shalt see, I go for Vengeance, and ‘twill come with me. [Going out, turns and draws.
Abd. Stay! for ‘tis here already—turn, proud Boy. [Abd. draws.
King. What mean you, Philip?—[Talks to him aside.
Qu. Cease, cease your most impolitick Rage. [To Abd. Is this a time to shew’t?—Dear Son, you are a King, And may allay this Tempest.
King. How dare you disobey my Will and Pleasure? [To Abd.
Abd. Shall I be calm, and hear my Wife call’d Whore? Were he great Jove, and arm’d with all his Lightning, By Heav’n, I could not hold my just Resentment.