A King, and No King

by Francis Beaumont; John Fletcher

I Sir, it shall not serve your turn.

Tigr.

Be plainer, good Sir.

Arb.

This woman shall carry no more letters back to your
Love Panthea, by Heaven she shall not, I say she shall not.

Mar.

This would make a Saint swear like a souldier.

Tigr.

This beats me more, King, than the blowes you gave me.

Arb.