Grip. Will you compound, and take it as my present?
Phæd. No; but I'll send thy rival to force it from thee.
Grip. When a thief is rival to his judge, the hangman will soon decide the difference.
[Exit Phædra.
Enter Mercury, with two Swords.
Merc. [Bowing.] Save your good lordship.
Grip. From an impertinent coxcomb: I am out of humour, and am in haste; leave me.
Merc. 'Tis my duty to attend on your lordship, and to ease you of that undecent burden.
Grip. Gold was never any burden to one of my profession.
Merc. By your lordship's permission, Phædra has sent me to take it from you.