Arb.
You must be crossing me.
Mar.
I have no letters Sir to anger you,
But a dry sonnet of my Corporals
To an old Suttlers wife, and that I'll burn, Sir.
'Tis like to prove a fine age for the Ignorant.
Arb.
How darst thou so often forfeit thy life?
Thou know'st 'tis in my power to take it.
Mar.
Yes, and I know you wo'not, or if you doe, you'll miss it quickly.
Arb.
Why?