Ful. Royal! there's something in't.
Aler. It smells rank o' th' traitor.
Pan. Are you i' th' wind on't?
Aur. Will you leave us?
Phil. I cannot stay; O, I am sick to death!
[Exit.
Aur. Or I'll never trust poison more.
[Aside.
Mach. Pray, seat yourselves,
Gentlemen; though your deserts have merit,