I cannot utter it, why should I keep
A breast to harbour thoughts? I dare not speak.
Darkness is in my bosom, and there lie
A thousand thoughts that cannot brook the light:
How wilt thou vex 'em when this deed is done,
Conscience, that art afraid to let me name it?
Mar.
How do you Sir?
Arb.
Why very well Mardonius, how dost thou do?
Mar.
Better than you I fear.
Arb.
I hope thou art; for to be plain with thee,
Thou art in Hell else, secret scorching flames
That far transcend earthly material fires
Are crept into me, and there is no cure.
Is it not strange Mardonius, there's no cure?
Mar.