His Highnesse might perhaps have bestow'd better.
Buss. Goe, y'are a rascall; hence, away, you rogue! [Strikes him.]215
Maff. What meane you, sir?
Buss. Hence! prate no more!
Or, by thy villans bloud, thou prat'st thy last!
A barbarous groome grudge at his masters bountie!
But since I know he would as much abhorre
His hinde should argue what he gives his friend,220
Take that, Sir, for your aptnesse to dispute. Exit.
Maff. These crownes are set in bloud; bloud be their fruit! Exit.