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.