Mar.
Who shall tell you of these childish follies
When I am dead? who shall put to his power
To draw those vertues out of a flood of humors,
When they are drown'd, and make'em shine again?
No, cut my head off:
Then you may talk, and be believed, and grow worse,
And have your too self-glorious temper rot
Into a deep sleep, and the Kingdom with you,
Till forraign swords be in your throats, and slaughter
Be every where about you like your flatterers.
Do, kill me.
Arb.
Prethee be tamer, good Mardonius,
Thou know'st I love thee, nay I honour thee,
Believe it good old Souldier, I am thine;
But I am rack'd clean from my self, bear with me,
Woot thou bear with me my Mardonius?
Enter Gobrias.
Mar.
There comes a good man, love him too, he's temperate,
You may live to have need of such a vertue,
Rage is not still in fashion.
Arb.
Welcome good Gobrias.
Gob.