Arb.
Which, good Gobrias? that Lady dost thou mean?
Gob.
That Lady Sir,
She is your Sister, and she is your Sister
That loves you so, 'tis she for whom I weep,
To see you use her thus.
Arb.
It cannot be.
Tigr.
Pish, this is tedious,
I cannot hold, I must present my self,
And yet the sight of my Spaconia
Touches me, as a sudden thunder-clap
Does one that is about to sin.
Arb.
Away,
No more of this; here I pronounce him Traytor,
The direct plotter of my death, that names
Or thinks her for my Sister, 'tis a lie,
The most malicious of the world, invented
To mad your King; he that will say so next,
Let him draw out his sword and sheath it here,
It is a sin fully as pardonable:
She is no kin to me, nor shall she be;
If she were ever, I create her none:
And which of you can question this? My power
Is like the Sea, that is to be obey'd,
And not disputed with: I have decreed her
As far from having part of blood with me,
As the nak'd indians; come and answer me,
He that is boldest now; is that my Sister?