Hat. Good brother, heare some Musicke, twill delight you.
Al. Ile call the Actors, will you see a play?
Fre. Or, gracious father, see me runne the race On a light footed horse, swifter then winde.
Duke. I pray forbeare.
Al. This moode will make you mad, For melancholy ushers franticke thoughts.
Hat. It makes hot wreaking blood turne cold and drie, And drithe and coldnesse are the signes of death.
Duke. You doe torment me.
Fred. Is it anything That I have done, offends your grace?
Hat. Or comes this hidden anger from my fault?
Alf. Heres none but gladly would resigne his life To doe you pleasure, so please you to command.