_Enter_ Arbaces _with his sword drawn_.

_Arb_.

It is resolv'd, I bare it whilst I could, I can no more, I must begin with murther of my friends, and so go on to that incestuous ravishing, and end my life and sins with a forbidden blow, upon my self.

_Enter_ Mardonius.

_Mar_.

What Tragedy is near? That hand was never wont to draw a sword, but it cry'd dead to something.

_Arb_.

_Mardonius_, have you bid _Gobrias_ come?

_Mar_.

How do you Sir?

_Arb_.

Well, is he coming?

_Mar_.

Why Sir, are you thus? why do your hands proclaim a lawless War against your self?

_Arb_.

Thou answerest me one question with an other, is _Gobrias_ coming?

_Mar_.

Sir he is.

_Arb_.

'Tis well, I can forbear your questions then, be gone.

_Mar_.

Sir, I have mark't.

_Arb_.

Mark less, it troubles you and me.

_Mar_.

You are more variable than you were.

_Arb_.

It may be so.

_Mar_.

To day no Hermit could be humbler than you were to us all.

_Arb_.

And what of this?

_Mar_.

And now you take new rage into your eyes, as you would look us all out of the Land.

_Arb_.

I do confess it, will that satisfie? I prethee get thee gone.

_Mar_.

Sir, I will speak.

_Arb_.

Will ye?

_Mar_.

It is my duty. I fear you will kill your self: I am a subject, and you shall do me wrong in't: 'tis my cause, and I may speak.

_Arb_.

Thou art not train'd in sin, it seems _Mardonius_: kill my self!

by Heaven I will not do it yet; and when I will, I'le tell thee then: I shall be such a creature, that thou wilt give me leave without a word. There is a method in mans wickedness, it grows up by degrees: I am not come so high as killing of my self, there are a hundred thousand sins 'twixt me and it, which I must doe, and I shall come to't at last; but take my oath not now, be satisfied, and get thee hence.

_Mar_.

I am sorry 'tis so ill.

_Arb_.

Be sorry then, true sorrow is alone, grieve by thy self.

_Mar_.

I pray you let me see your Sword put up before I go: I'le leave you then.