Gold is their Prince and God,—go, be gone— They withdraw.
—See, Sir, I can command them.
Fred. Curtius, why dost thou deal thus treacherously with me?
Did I not offer thee to fight thee fairly?
Cur. ’Tis like the Injuries, Sir, that you have done me;
Pardon me if my Griefs make me too rude,
And in coarse terms lay all your Sins before you.
—First, Sir, you have debauch’d my lovely Sister,
The only one I had;
The Hope and Care of all our noble Family: