_Gril._ I know not what to say, nor what to think;
There's heaven still in thy voice, but that's a sign
Virtue's departing; for thy better angel
Still makes the woman's tongue his rising ground,
Wags there a while, and takes his flight for ever.

_Mar._ You must not go.

_Gril._ Though I have reason, plain
As day, to judge thee false, I think thee true:
By heaven, methinks I see a glory round thee!
There's something says, thou wilt not lose thy honour:--
Death and the devil! that's my own honesty;
My foolish open nature, that would have
All like myself;--but off; I'll hence and curse thee!

_Mar._ O, stay!

_Gril._ I will not.
_Mar._ Hark! the king's coming.
Let me conjure you, for your own soul's quiet,
And for the everlasting rest of mine,
Stir not, till you have heard my heart's design.

_Gril._ Angel, or devil, I will.--Nay, at this rate,
She'll make me shortly bring him to her bed.--
Bawd for him? no, he shall make me run my head
Into a cannon, when 'tis firing, first;
That's honourable sport. But I'll retire,