Nay then we must be valiant; O my ribs.
2 Sword.
O my small guts, a plague upon these sharp-toed shooes, they are murtherers.
[Exeunt clear.
Enter Arbaces with his sword drawn.
Arb.
It is resolv'd, I bare it whilst I could, I can no more, I must begin with murther of my friends, and so go on to that incestuous ravishing, and end my life and sins with a forbidden blow, upon my self.
Enter Mardonius.
Mar.
What Tragedy is near? That hand was never wont to draw a sword, but it cry'd dead to something.