Arb. Who's that?
Art. 'Tis I thy injur'd sister, come to make
The first hole in that base duke's heart; it is
My right.
Arb. Begin, begin then, that I may
Make an end.
Art. Stay, brother, not too fast,
Has he said his prayers?
Arb. His pray'rs! why none
But the devil will hear them. Come, come, sister,
Give me the dagger again; you waste time.
Art. And so I will, the duke shan't die.
Arb. How, not die?
Art. Not die, I say.
Arb. Then you are his whore all this while, and wou'd
Have him live, that you may be so still.
Art. Brother,
Another word so foul, I'll strike this dagger
Through your heart,
Therefore hear me speak. Know then,
'Tis I that cannot love the duke, which he
Would never tell you, knowing 'twould make you angry
With me.