Duke. Ha, ha, ha! you jest, you jest.
Arb. What,
Does the conceit on't make you laugh already?
I was resolved to wake thee, before
I sent thee to hell, because thou may'st know
Of whose errand thou goest.
Duke. Come, come, leave
Your foolery, lest you heat my blood.
Arb. If
I do, I will let it out all, and that
Will quickly cool it. I would give thee time
To say thy prayers now, but that I know
Thy sin to be so great, that heaven will
Not pardon thee.
Enter Artabella.
Ort. Who's that?
Art. 'Tis I, my lord:
Artabella. Let me in quickly, that I
May have one stab at his false heart, before
My brother has put him past feeling.
Ort. And so thou shalt, brave girl.
Arb. Now, duke, good night to you, and the devil
Send you good rest.
Art. Hold, brother.