Enter Arbaces with his Sword drawne.
Arb.
It is resolv'd, I bore it whilst I could,
I can no more, Hell open all thy gates,
And I will thorough them; if they be shut,
Ile batter um, but I will find the place
Where the most damn'd have dwelling; ere I end,
Amongst them all they shall not have a sinne,
But I may call it mine: I must beginne
With murder of my friend, and so goe on
To an incestuous ravishing, and end
My life and sinnes with a forbidden blow
Upon my selfe.
Enter Mardonius.
Mardo.
What Tragedie is here?
That hand was never wont to draw a Sword,
But it cride dead to something:
Arb.
Mar. have you bid Gobrius come?
Mar.
How doe you Sir?