Alex. Noe, tis doing sacrifice to slaunderd goodnes.
Y. M. Rob my beloved Sister of a husband!
Alex. Yes, to redeeme to your mother her lost honour.
Y. M. Art not a Divell?
Alex. Ha!
Y. M. Thy breath has blasted me.
Alex. I must confes indeed I have eaten garlicke.
Y. M. All pious thoughts that lately fild this spheare
Are scatterd with the winds that issu'd from thee,
Which, like the infectious yawning of a hill,
Belching forth death inevitable,
Has distroyd freindship and nature in me.
Thou canst not poyson worse: I can feed now,
Feed and nere burst with mallice. Sing, Syren, sing
And swell me with revenge sweet as the straines
Falls from the Thrasian lyre; charme each sence
With musick of Revenge, let Innocence
In softest tunes like the expiring Swann
Dy singing her owne Epitaph.
Alex. What meane you, sir? are you mad? goe to and goe to; you doe not use me well; I say and I say, you do not. Have I this for my love to you and your good Mother? Why, I might be your Father by my age, which is falne on me in my old Mrs service; he would have used me better.
Y. M. Dost weepe, old Crocodile? looke dost see this sword.