for three
Half pence a day, and think it Lordly,
From this base Stallion trade: why does he eye me,
Eye me so narrowly?

_Dua._ It seems you are troubled Sir,
I heard you speak of want.

_Rut._ 'Tis better hearing
Far, than relieving Sir.

_Dua._ I do not think so, you know me not.

_Rut._ Not yet that I remember.

_Dua._ You shall, and for your friend: I am beholding to ye,
Greatly beholding Sir; if you remember,
You fought with such a man, they call'd _Duarte_,
A proud distemper'd man: he was my enemy,
My mortal foe, you slew him fairly, nobly.

_Rut._ Speak softly Sir, you do not mean to betray me,
I wisht the Gallows, now th'are coming fairly.

_Dua._ Be confident, for as I live, I love you,
And now you shall perceive it: for that service,
Me, and my purse command: there, take it to ye,
'Tis gold, and no small sum, a thousand Duckets,
Supply your want.

_Rut._ But do you do this faithfully?

_Dua._ If I mean ill, spit in my face and kick me:
In what else I may serve you, Sir--

_Rut._ I thank you,
This is as strange to me as Knights adventures.
I have a project, 'tis an honest one,
And now I'le tempt my fortune.

_Dua._ Trust me with it.

_Rut._ You are so good and honest I must trust ye,
'Tis but to carry a letter to a Lady
That sav'd my life once.

_Dua._ That will be most thankful,
I will do't with all care.

_Rut._ Where are you, white-broth?
Now lusty blood,
Come in, and tell your mony:
'Tis ready here, no threats, nor no orations,
Nor prayers now.

_Sulp._ You do not mean to leave me.

_Rut._ I'le live in Hell sooner than here, and cooler.
Come quickly come, dispatch, this air's unwho[l]som:
Quickly good Lady, quickly to't.

_Sulp._ Well, since it must be,
The next I'le fetter faster sure, and closer.

_Rut._ And pick his bones, as y'have done mine, pox take ye.

_Dua._ At my lodging for a while, you shall be quartered,
And there take Physick for your health.

_Rut._ I thank ye,
I have found my angel now too, if I can keep him.
[_Exeunt omnes._

_Actus Quintus. Scena Prima._

_Enter Rutilio and Duarte._

_Rut. You like the Letter?

_Dua._ Yes, but I must tell you
You tempt a desperate hazard, to sollicite
The mother, (and the grieved one too, 'tis rumor'd)
Of him you slew so lately.

_Rut._ I have told you
Some proofs of her affection, and I know not
A nearer way to make her satisfaction
For a lost Son, than s