Cal. Pity! a pox upon you.
King. Mark his disordered words, and at the Mask.
Mel. Diagoras knows he raged, and rail'd at me,
And cal'd a Lady Whore, so innocent
She understood him not; but it becomes
Both you and me too, to forgive distraction,
Pardon him as I do.
Cal. I'le not speak for thee, for all thy cunning, if you
will be safe chop off his head, for there was never
known so impudent a Rascal.
King. Some that love him, get him to bed: Why, pity
should not let age make it self contemptible; we must
be all old, have him away.
Mel. Calianax, the King believes you; come, you shall go
Home, and rest; you ha' done well; you'l give it up
When I have us'd you thus a moneth I hope.
Cal. Now, now, 'tis plain Sir, he does move me still;
He sayes he knows I'le give him up the Fort,
When he has us'd me thus a moneth: I am mad,
Am I not still?
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha!
Cal. I shall be mad indeed, if you do thus;
Why would you trust a sturdy fellow there
(That has no vertue in him, all's in his sword)
Before me? do but take his weapons from him,
And he's an Ass, and I am a very fool,
Both with him, and without him, as you use me.
Omnes. Ha, ha, ha!