Gal. 'Twould ill become my Fortunes and my Birth
To disobey the Daughter of my King.
King. Y'are all cunning to obey us for our hurt,
But I will have her.
Pha. If I have her not,
By this hand there shall be no more Cicily.
Di. What will he carry it to Spain in's pocket?
Pha. I will not leave one man alive, but the King,
A Cook and a Taylor.
Di. Yet you may do well to spare your Ladies Bed-fellow,
and her you may keep for a Spawner.
King. I see the injuries I have done must be reveng'd.
Di. Sir, this is not the way to find her out.
King. Run all, disperse your selves: the man that finds her, Or (if she be kill'd) the Traytor; I'le [make] him great.
Di. I know some would give five thousand pounds to find her.