Bach. All will go ill, deny it boldly Sir, trust me he cannot prove it by you.
Leu. What?
Bach. You'll make all worse too with your facing it.
Leuc. What is the matter?
Leon. Know'st thou that petition?
Look on it well: wouldst thou be joyn'd with me
(Unnaturall child to be weary of me)
E'r Fate esteem me fit for other worlds.
Bac. May be he knows not of it.
Leu. Oh strange carriages!
Sir, as I have hope that there is any thing
To reward doing well, my usages
Which have been (but 'tis no matter what)
Have put me so far from the thought of Greatness,
That I should welcome it like a disease
That grew upon me, and I could not cure.
They are my enemies that gave you this,
And yet they call me friend, and are themselves
I fear abus'd. I am weary of my life,
For Gods sake take it from me: it creates
More mischief in the State than it is worth,
The usage I have had, I know would make
Wisdom her self run frantick through the streets,
And Patience quarrel with her shadow.
Sir, this sword—
Bac. Alas! help for the love of Heaven,
Make way through me first, for he is your Father.
Leon. What, would he kill me?