Proudly. To-morrow morning, Ingen;
'Tis that I covet, and provoke thee for.
Bro. Will you not strike him now?
Ingen. No; my good boy
Is both discreet and just in his advice.
Thy glories are to last but for a day:
Give me thy hand;
To-morrow morning thou shalt be no lord.
Proudly. To-morrow noon thou shalt not be at all.
Ingen. Pish! why should you think so? have not I arms,
A soul as bold as yours, a sword as true?
I do not think your honour in the field,
Without your lordship's liveries, will have odds.
Proudly. Farewell, and let's have no excuses, pray.
[Exit Proudly.
Ingen. I warrant you. Pray, say your prayers to-night,
And bring an[98] inkhorn w' ye, to set your hand to
A satisfactory recantation.
[Exit.
Maid. O wretched maid! whose sword can I pray for?
But by the other's loss I must find death.
O odious brother, if he kill my love!
O bloody love, if he should kill my brother!
Despair on both sides of my discontent
Tells me no safety rests but to prevent.
[Exit.