Dor. I'le tell thee what I think, the plague, war, famine,
Nay put in dice and drunkenness (and those
You'l grant are pretty helps) kill not so many
(I mean so many noble) as your loves do,
Rather your lewdness, I crave your mercy, women,
Be not offended if I anger ye.
I am sure ye have touch'd me deep, I came to be merry,
And with my children, but to see one ruin'd
By this fell accident—are they all dead?
If they be, speak?
Clean. What news?
Enter Beronte, Alcidon, Clarinda, following with a Letter.
Ber. What, dead? ye pose me;
I understand you not.
Clea. My Brother Lidian, Clarange, and their seconds.
Ber. Here is one of 'em, and sure this Gentleman's alive.
Alci. I hope so, so is your Son, Sir, so is brave Clarange:
They fought indeed, and they were hurt sufficiently;
We were all hurt, that bred the general rumour,
But friends again all, and like friends we parted.
Clea. Heard ye of Lisander?
Ber. Yes, and miss'd him narrowly:
He was one of the combatants, fought with this Gentleman,
Second against your Brother, by his wisdom
(For certainly good fortune follows him)
All was made peace, I'le tell you the rest at dinner,
For we are hungry.
Alci. I before I eat
Must pay a vow I am sworn to; my life, Madam,
Was at Lisander's mercy, I live by it;
And for the noble favour, he desir'd me
To kiss your fair hand for him, offering
This second service as a Sacrifice
At the Altar of your vertues.