feare thy cutting of mine.

Gui. Ile doe't, by this hand.[140]

Buss. That hand dares not doe't; y'ave cut

too many throats already, Guise, and robb'd the

realme of many thousand soules, more precious

than thine owne. Come, madam, talk on. Sfoot,

can you not talk? Talk on, I say. Another[145]

riddle.

Pyrhot. Here's some strange distemper.