Mar.
His fit begins to take him now again,
'Tis a strange Feaver, and 'twill shake us all anon, I fear,
Would he were well cur'd of this raging folly:
Give me the warrs, where men are mad, and may talk what they
list, and held the bravest fellows; This pelting prating peace is
good for nothing: drinking's a vertue to't.
Arb.
I see there's truth in no man, nor obedience,
But for his own ends, why did you let her in?
Bac.
It was your own command to barr none from him,
Besides, the Princess sent her ring Sir, for my warrant.
Arb.
A token to Tigranes, did she not?
Sir tell truth.
Bac.