Get you about your business to Arbaces, now you talk idlely.
Lyg.
Yes Sir, I will go, and shall she be a Queen? she had more wit than her old Father, when she ran away: shall she be Queen? now by my troth 'tis fine, I'le dance out of all measure at her wedding: shall I not Sir?
Tigr.
Yes marry shalt thou.
Lyg.
I'le make these withered kexes bear my body two hours together above ground.
Tigr.
Nay go, my business requires hast.
Lyg.