Acast. Have a care, young soldier,
How thou'rt too busy with Acasto's fame;
I have a sword, my arm's good old acquaintance.
Villain to thee!
Cham. Curse on thy scandalous age,
Which hinders me to rush upon thy throat,
And tear the root up of that cursed bramble!
Acast. Ungrateful ruffian! sure my good old friend
Was ne'er thy father; nothing of him's in thee:
What have I done in my unhappy age,
To be thus used? I scorn to upbraid thee, boy;
But I could put thee in remembrance—
Cham. Do.
Acast. I scorn it!
Cham. No, I'll calmly hear the story;
For I would fain know all, to see which scale
Weighs most—Ha! is not that good old Acasto?
What have I done?—can you forgive this folly?
Acast. Why dost thou ask it?
Cham. 'Twas the rude o'erflowing
Of too much passion; pray, my lord, forgive me. [Kneels.
Acast. Mock me not, youth; I can revenge a wrong.
Cham. I know it well; but for this thought of mine,
Pity a madman's frenzy, and forget it.