Med. La you, there's in him a Kings heart already.
As, therefore, we before together vow'd,
Lay all your warlike hands upon my Sword
And sweare.
Seb. Will you sweare to kill me, Vncle?
Med. Oh, not for twenty worlds.
Seb. Nay, then, draw and spare not, for I love fighting.
Med. Stand in the midst, sweet Cooz; we are your guard;
These Hammers shall for thee beat out a Crowne,
If hit all right. Sweare therefore, noble friends
By your high bloods, by true Nobility,
By what you owe Religion, owe to your Country,
Owe to the raising your posterity;
By love you beare to vertue and to Armes
(The shield of Innocence) sweare not to sheath
Your Swords, when once drawne forth—
Onae. Oh, not to kill him For twenty thousand worlds!
Med. Will you be quiet?— Your Swords, when once drawne forth, till they ha forc'd Yon godlesse, perjurous, perfidious man—
Onae. Pray raile not at him so.
Med. Art mad? y'are idle:—till they ha forc'd him
To cancell his late lawlesse bond he seal'd
At the high Altar to his Florentine Strumpet,
And in his bed lay this his troth-plight wife.
Onae. I, I, that's well; pray sweare.