Leon. Nay, you must back and shew us what it is,
That 'witches you out of your Honor thus.
Bacha. Who's that?
Tima. Look there Sir.
Leon. Lady, never flye you are betray'd.
Bacha. Leave me my tears a while,
And to my Just rage give a little place:
What saucy man are you, that without leave,
Enter upon a Widows mournfull house?
You hinder a dead man from many tears.
Who did deserve more than the world can shed,
Though they should weep themselves to Images.
If not for love of me, yet of your self
Away, for you can bring no [comfort] to me.
But you may carry hence, you know not what.
Nay sorrow is infectious.
Leon. Thou thy self
Art grown infectious: wouldst thou know my name?
I am the Duke, father to this young-man
Whom thou corrupt'st.
Bacha. Has he th[e]n told him all?
Leuc. You do her wrong Sir.
Bacha. O he has not told. Sir I beseech you pardon
My wild tongue, directed by a weak distemper'd head
Madded with grief: Alas I did not know
You were my Sovereign; but now you may
Command my poor unworthy life,
Which will be none I hope ere long.
Leon. All thy dissembling will never hide thy shame:
And wer't not more respecting Womanhood in
General, than any thing in thee, thou shouldst
Be made such an example, that posteritie,
When they would speak most bitterly, should say,
Thou art as impudent as Bacha was.