Mail. Take you, sir! O heaven! 195
Mess. [aside, to Clermont]. Beleeve it, sir, his count'nance chang'd in turning.
Mail. What doe you meane, sir?
Cler. If you have charg'd them,
You being charg'd your selfe, to apprehend mee,
Turne not your face; throw not your lookes about so.
Mail. Pardon me, sir. You amaze me to conceive200
From whence our wils to honour you should turne
To such dishonour of my lord, your brother.
Dare I, without him, undertake your taking?