Timag. But that I scorn
To rust my good sword in thy slavish blood,
Thou now wert dead.
Mar. He's more a slave than fortune
Or misery can make me, that insults
Upon unweapon'd innocence.
Timag. Prate you, dog?
Mar. Curs snap at lions in the toil, whose looks
Frighted them, being free.
Timag. As a wild beast,
Drive him before you.
Mar. O divine Cleora!
Leost. Darest thou presume to name her?
Mar. Yes, and love her;
And may say, have deserved her.
Timag. Stop his mouth,
Load him with irons too.
[Exit Guard with Marullo.