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
Ros. There's letters from my mother: What th' import
is, I know not yet
Par. I that would be knowne: too'th warrs my boy,
too'th warres:
He weares his honor in a boxe vnseene,
That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home,
Spending his manlie marrow in her armes
Which should sustaine the bound and high curuet
Of Marses fierie steed: to other Regions,
France is a stable, wee that dwell in't Iades,
Therefore too'th warre
Ros. It shall be so, Ile send her to my house,
Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
And wherefore I am fled: Write to the King
That which I durst not speake.
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