Duke. Shamont I say. [Gives him a touch with his switch.
Sham. Ha?
If he be mortal, by this hand he perishes; [Draws.
Unless it be a stroke from heaven, he dies for't.
Duke. Why, how now Sir? 'twas I.
Sham. The more's my misery.
Duke. Why, what's the matter prethee?
Sham. Can you ask it, Sir?
No man else should; stood forty lives before him,
By this I would have op'd my way to him;
It could not be you Sir, excuse him not,
What e'er he be, as y'are dear to honor,
That I may find my peace agen.
Duke. Forbear I say,
Upon my love to truth, 'twas none but I.
Sham. Still miserable?
Duke. Come, come, what ails you Sir?
Sham. Never sate shame cooling so long upon me,
Without a satisfaction in revenge,
And heaven has made it here a sin to wish it.