Fra. 'Tis oh my wife indeed, my Lord,
A painful stitch to my side; would it were pick'd out.
Phil. Well Sir, your silence.
Bust. Will you be older and older every day than other? the longer you live the older still? Must his Majesty command your silence ere you'l hold your tongue?
Phil. Your reprehension runs into the same fault:
'Pray Sir, will you be silent.
Bust. I have told him of this before now, my Liege, but
Age will have his course, and his weaknesses.
Phil. Good Sir, your forbearance.
Bust. And his frailties, and his follies, as I may say, that cannot hold his tongue ere he be bidden.
Phil. Why Sirha?
Bust. But I believe your Majesty will not be long troubled with him: I hope that woman has something to confess will hang them both.