Get you about your businesse to Arbaces,
Now you talke idlie.
Lig.
Yes Sir, I will goe.
And shall she be a Queene, she had more wit
Then her old Father when she ranne away:
Shall shee be a Queene, now by my troth tis fine,
Ile dance out of all measure at her wedding:
Shall I not Sir?
Tigr.
Yes marrie shalt thou.
Lig.
He make these witherd Kexes beare my bodie
Two houres together above ground.
Tigr.
Nay, goe, my businesse requires haste.
Lig.