Zab. Shall we pluck yet?
Hip. No, hold a little Zabulon, I'le pluck his heart-strings first: now am I worthy A little of your love?
Arn. I'le be your Servant, Command me through what danger you shall aime at, Let it be death.
Hip. Be sure Sir, I shall fit you.
Arn. But spare this Virgin.
Hip. I would spare that villain first, Had cut my Fathers throat.
Arn. Bounteous Lady, If in your sex there be that noble softness, That tenderness of heart, women are crown'd for—
Zen. Kneel not Arnoldo, doe her not that honour,
She is not worthy such submission,
I scorn a life depends upon her pity.
Proud woman do thy worst, and arm thy anger
With thoughts as black as Hell, as hot and bloody,
I bring a patience here, shall make 'em blush,
An innocence, shall outlook thee, and death too.
Arn. Make me your slave, I give my freedom to ye,
For ever to be fetter'd to your service;
'Twas I offended, be not so unjust then,
To strike the innocent, this gentle maid
Never intended fear and doubt against you:
She is your Servant, pay not her observance
With cruel looks, her duteous faith with death.
Hip. Am I fair now? now am I worth your liking?