themselues vpon thee

Par. This is hard and vndeserued measure my Lord

Laf. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking
a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and
no true traueller: you are more sawcie with Lordes and
honourable personages, then the Commission of your
birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth
another word, else I'de call you knaue. I leaue you.

Exit

Enter Count Rossillion.

Par. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very
good, let it be conceal'd awhile

Ros. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer

Par. What's the matter sweet-heart?
Rossill. Although before the solemne Priest I haue
sworne, I will not bed her

Par. What? what sweet heart?
Ros. O my Parrolles, they haue married me:
Ile to the Tuscan warres, and neuer bed her

Par. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits,
The tread of a mans foot: too'th warres