O my Spaconia! O thou vertuous woman!
Spa.
Nay, more, the King Sir.
Enter Arbaces, Bacurius, Mardonius.
Arb.
Have you been carefull of our noble Prisoner,
That he want nothing fitting for his greatness?
Bac.
I hope his grace will quit me for my care Sir.
Arb.
'Tis well, royal Tigranes, health.