Bur. This pen is stabbed and it will not write: The incke that's in the standage[146] doth looke blacke, This in my pen is turnd as red as bloud.
Phil. The reason that the platforme[147] you would make Must by this hand be written with thy bloud.
Bur. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Burbon so?
Phil. One that's as desperat-carelesse of his life As thou art timorous and fearst to dye.
Bur. Comest thou to kill me?
Phil. If I should say no, This weapon would condemne me, which I seyz'd Of purpose, Burbon, to bereave thy life.
Bur. Why, fond man, mad man, know'st thou what thou doest?
Phil. I know it, Burbon, and I know besides What thou wouldst say to daunt my resolution.
Bur. What would I say?
Phil. Why, that this place is death,
As being thy Tent, environ'd with thy slaves,
Where if I kill thee tis impossible
To scape with life: this, Burbon, thou wouldst say.
But Philip is not be mov'd with words.