Tyr. The fool, belike,
Makes his choice carefully, for so we charg'd him,
To fit our close deeds with some private hand.
It is no shame for thee, most silent mistress,
To stand in need of art, when youth
And all thy warm friends have forsook thee!
Women alive are glad to seek her friendship,
To make up the fair number of their graces,
Or else the reckoning would fall short sometimes,
And servants would look out for better wages.
Enter 3d Soldier, with Govianus disguised.
2d Sol. He's come, my lord.
Tyr. Depart then: is that he?
3d Sol. The privatest I could get, my lord.
Gov. [Aside.] O heaven! marry patience to my spirit!
Give me a sober fury, I beseech thee:
A rage that may not overcharge my blood,
And do myself most hurt! 'tis strange to me
To see thee here at court, and gone from hence.
Didst thou make haste to leave the world for this?
O, who dares play with destiny but he
That wears security so thick upon him,
The thought of death and hell cannot pierce through?
Tyr. 'Twas circumspectly carried: leave us, go!
Be nearer, sir: thou'rt much commended to us.
Gov. It is the hand, my lord, commends the workman.
Tyr. Thou speak'st both modesty and truth in that:
We need that art that thou art master of.