Flam. With a fan of feather?
Marc. And, for you, I 'll whip
This folly from you.
Flam. Are you choleric?
I 'll purge it with rhubarb.
Hort. Oh, your brother!
Flam. Hang him,
He wrongs me most, that ought t' offend me least:
I do suspect my mother play'd foul play,
When she conceiv'd thee.
Marc. Now, by all my hopes,
Like the two slaughter'd sons of dipus,
The very flames of our affection
Shall turn two ways. Those words I 'll make thee answer
With thy heart-blood.
Flam. Do, like the geese in the progress;
You know where you shall find me.
Marc. Very good. [Exit Flamineo.
And thou be'st a noble friend, bear him my sword,
And bid him fit the length on 't.
Young Lord. Sir, I shall. [Exeunt all but Zanche.
Zan. He comes. Hence petty thought of my disgrace!
[Enter Francisco.
I ne'er lov'd my complexion till now,
'Cause I may boldly say, without a blush,
I love you.