_Mel_. I shall forget this place, thy Age, my safety, and
through all, cut that poor sickly week thou hast to
live, away from thee.

_Cal_. Nay, I know you can fight for your Whore.

_Mel_. Bate the King, and be he flesh and blood,
He lyes that saies it, thy mother at fifteen
Was black and sinful to her.

_Diag_. Good my Lord!

_Mel_. Some god pluck threescore years from that fond man,
That I may kill him, and not stain mine honour;
It is the curse of Souldiers, that in peace
They shall be brain'd by such ignoble men,
As (if the Land were troubled) would with tears
And knees beg succour from 'em: would that blood
(That sea of blood) that I have lost in fight,
Were running in thy veins, that it might make thee
Apt to say less, or able to maintain,
Shouldst thou say more,--This _Rhodes_ I see is nought
But a place priviledg'd to do men wrong.

_Cal_. I, you may say your pleasure.

[_Enter Amintor_.

_Amint_. What vilde injury