Con. To curse those stars, that men say govern us,
To rail at fortune, fall out with my Fate,
And tax the general world, will help me nothing:
Alas, I am the same still, neither are they
Subject to helps, or hurts: Our own desires
Are our own fates, our own stars, all our fortunes,
Which as we sway 'em, so abuse, or bless us.
Enter Frederick, and Don John, peeping.
Fred. Peace to your meditations.
John. Pox upon ye,
Stand out o'th' light.
Const. I crave your mercy Sir,
My minde o're-charg'd with care made me unmannerly.
Fred. Pray ye set that mind at rest, all shall be perfect.
John. I like the body rare; a handsom body,
A wondrous handsom body: would she would turn:
See, and that spightful puppy be not got
Between me and my light again.
Fred. 'Tis done,
As all that you command shall be: the Gentleman
Is safely off all danger.
John. O de dios.
Const. How shall I thank ye Sir? how satisfie?