With your command, as being a Governour
To the great King in _Lisbon.

Enter_ Duarte _and his Page_.

_Man_. Here he comes.
We are unseen, observe him.

_Dua_. Boy.

_Page_. My Lord.

_Dua_. What saith the _Spanish_ Captain that I struck,
To my bold challenge?

_Page_. He refus'd to read it.

_Dua_. Why didst not leave it there?

_Page_. I did my Lord,
But to no purpose, for he seems more willing
To sit down with the wrongs, than to repair
His honour by the sword; he knows too well,
That from your Lordship nothing can be got
But more blows, and disgraces.

_Dua_. He's a wretch,
A miserable wretch, and all my fury
Is lost upon him; holds the Mask, appointed
I'th' honour of _Hippolyta_?