_Mar._ O! thou confut'st divinely, and thy words Do fall like rods upon me; but they have Such silken lines, and silver hooks, that I Am faster snar'd: my love has ta'en such hold, That (like two wrestlers) though thou stronger be, And hast cast me, I hope to pull thee after. I must, or perish.
_Dor._ Perish, _Martius_, then; For I here vow unto the gods, These rocks, These rocks we see so fix'd, shall be removed, Made champion field, ere I so impious prove, To stain my Lords bed with adulterous love.
_Dor._ Amen, From all you wolvish Romanes. [_Exit._
_Val._ Ha? what's this? Still, brother, in your moods? O th[e]n my doubts Are truths. Have at it: I must try a way To be resolv'd.
_Mar._ How strangely dost thou look! what ailst thou?
_Val._ Why, I [a]m madder. _Martius_, draw thy sword, And lop a villain from the earth; for if Thou wilt not, on some tree about this place I'll hang my self; _Valerius_ shall not live To wound his brothers honor, stain his Countrey, And branded with ingratitude to all times.
_Mar._ With _Dorigen_? how dost thou love her? speak.
_Val._ Even to the height of lust; and I must have her or else I die.
_Mar._ Thou shalt, thou daring Traitor. On all the confines I have rid my horse, Was there no other woman for thy choice But _Dorigen_? Why, villain, she is mine: She makes me pine thus, sullen, mad, and fool; 'T is I must have her, or I die.
_Val._ O all ye gods, With mercy look on this declining rock Of valour, and of virtue; breed not up (From infancie) in honor, to full man, As you have done him, to destroy: here, strike; For I have onely search'd thy wound: dispatch; Far, far be such love from _Valerius_, So far he scorns to live to be call'd brother By him that dares own such folly and such vice.
_Mar._ 'T is truth thou speak'st; but I do hate it: peace, If heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand, And put a rattle in it, what can I do? He that is destin'd to be odious In his old age, must undergo his fate.
_Corn._ If you do not back me, I shall never do't.
_Corn._ Humh, humh: Sir; my Lord, my Lord.
_Corn._ Humh; concerning the odd fifty, my Lord, and 't please your Generality, his Worship, Sir _Nichodemus_.
_Mar._ What's here? a Pass? you would for _Rome_? you lubbers, doth one days laziness make ye covet home? away, ye boarish rogues; ye dogs, away.