Dem. Prethee farewel, and be not doubtfull of me.
Cel. I would not have ye hurt: and ye are so ventrous—
But good sweet Prince preserve your self, fight nobly,
But do not thrust this body, 'tis not yours now,
'Tis mine, 'tis only mine: do not seek wounds, Sir,
For every drop of blood you bleed—
Dem. I will Celia, I will be carefull.
Cel. My heart, that loves ye dearly.
Dem. Prethee no more, we must part: [Drums a March. Hark, they march now.
Cel. Pox on these bawling Drums: I am sure you'l kiss me, But one kiss? what a parting's this?
Dem. Here take me,
And do what thou wilt with me, smother me;
But still remember, if your fooling with me,
Make me forget the trust—
Cel. I have done: farewel Sir, Never look back, you shall not stay, not a minute.
Dem. I must have one farewel more.
Cel. No, the Drums beat; I dare not slack your honour; not a hand more, Only this look; the gods preserve, and save ye.