?

JAILER. Why, noble lord, when goods, friends, fortune fail,
What more than death might woful man avail?

MARIUS. Who calls for death, my friend, for all his scorns?
With Aesop's slave will leave his bush of thorns.
But since these trait'rous lords will have my head,
Their lordships here upon this homely bed
Shall find me sleeping, breathing forth my breath,
Till they their shame, and I my fame, attain by death.
Live, gentle Marius, to revenge my wrong!
And, sirrah, see they stay not over-long;
For he that erst hath conquer'd kingdoms many,
Disdains in death to be subdu'd by any.
[_He lies down_.

_Enter_ LUCIUS FAVORINUS, PAUSANIUS, _with_
PEDRO, _a Frenchman_.

JAILER. The most undaunted words that ever were.
The mighty thoughts of his imperious mind,
Do wound my heart with terror and remorse.

PAUSANIUS. 'Tis desperate, not perfect nobleness:
For to a man that is prepar'd to die,
The heart should rend, the sleep should leave the eye.
But say, Pedro, will you do the deed?

PEDRO.[122] Mon monsieurs, per la sang Dieu, me will make a trou so
large in ce belly, dat he sal cry hough, come un porceau. Featre de
lay, il a tue me fadre, he kill my modre. Faith a my trote mon espee
fera le fay dun soldat, sau sau. Ieievera come il founta pary: me will
make a spitch-cock of his persona.

L. FAVORINUS. If he have slain thy father and thy friends,
The greater honour shall betide the deed;
For to revenge on righteous estimate
Beseems the honour of a Frenchman's name.

PEDRO. Mes messiers, de fault avoir argent; me no point de argent, no
point kill Marius.

PAUSANIUS. Thou shalt have forty crowns; will that content thee?

PEDRO. Quarante escus, per le pied de madam, me give more dan foure to
se prittie damosele, dat have le dulces tittinos, le levres Cymbrines.
O, they be fines!

L. FAVORINUS. Great is the hire, and little is the pain;
Make therefore quick despatch, and look for gain.
See where he lies in drawing on his death,
Whose eyes, in gentle slumber sealed up,
Present no dreadful visions to his heart.

PEDRO. Bien, monsieur, je demourera content: Marius, tu es mort. Speak
dy preres in dy sleepe, for me sal cut off your head from your epaules,
before you wake. Qui es stia? what kinde a man be dis?

L. FAVORINUS. Why, what delays are these? why gaze ye thus?

PEDRO. Nostre dame! Jesu! estiene! O my siniors, der be a great diable
in ce eyes, qui dart de flame, an