Tis such a scurvy name as Bessus, and now I thinke tis hee.
Mar.
Captaine, doe you call him?
Beleeve me Sir, you have a miserie
Too mighty for your age: A pox upon him,
For that must be the end of all his service:
Your daughter was not mad Sir?
Lig.
No, would shee had beene,
The fault had had more credit: I would doe something.
Mar.
I would faine counsell you; but to what I know not:
Hee's so below a beating, that the women
Find him not worthy of their distaves; and
To hang him, were to cast away a rope,
Hee's such an ayrie thin unbodied coward,
That no revenge can catch him:
He tell you Sir, and tell you truth; this rascall
Feares neither God nor man, has beene so beaten:
Sufferance has made him wanscote; he has had
Since hee was first a slave, at least three hundred daggers
Set in his head, as little boyes doe new knives in hot meat;
Ther's not a rib in's bodie a my conscience,
That has not beene thrice broken with drie beating;
And now his sides looke like to wicker targets,
Everie way bended:
Children will shortly take him for a wall,
And set their stone-bowes in his forhead: is of so low a sence,
I cannot in a weeke imagine what should be done to him.
Lig.
Sure I have committed some great sinne,
That this strange fellow should be made my rod:
I would see him, but I shall have no patience:
Mar.