’Twill mar your work.
Ros.’Tis a small thing. ’Tis done.
’Twas an unlucky lunge that lanced thee there.
(To Mar.) What thinkest thou of my story?
Mar.’Twas but guessing.
Ros. Nay, inference. ’Twere guess to say, the skill
Which staunched the running blood, but could no more,
Might be thy brother’s: that this sunburnt arm,
Fine skin, and youthful fibre, were the body
Of John Palicio.