Arb.
Be sorry then, true sorrow is alone, grieve by thy self.
Mar.
I pray you let me see your Sword put up before I go: I'le leave you then.
Arb.
Why so? what folly is this in thee, is it not as apt to mischief as it was before? can I not reach it thinkst thou? these are toyes for Children to be pleas'd with, and not men, now I am safe you think: I would the book of fate were here, my Sword is not so sure but I would get it out and mangle that, that all the destinies should quite forget their fixt decrees, and hast to make us new, for other fortunes, mine could not be worse, wilt thou now leave me?
Mar.
Heaven put into your bosome temperate thoughts, I'le leave you though I fear.
Arb.
Go, thou art honest, why should the hasty error of my youth be so unpardonable to draw a sin helpless upon me?