Gon.

Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

Stew.

Ay, madam.

Gon.
By day and night! he wrongs me; every hour
He flashes into one gross crime or other,
That sets us all at odds: I'll not endure it:
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On every trifle:—When he returns from hunting,
I will not speak with him; say, I am sick:—
If you come slack of former services,
You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer.

Stew.
He's coming, madam; I hear him. [Horns within.

Gon.
Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows; I'd have it come to question:
If he dislike it, let him to my sister,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
*Not to be over-rul'd. ^{3 note}
Idle old man,
That still would manage those authorities,
That he hath given away!—Now, by my life,
^{4 note}

With checks, as flatteries when they are seen abus'd*.
Remember what I have said.

Stew.
Very well, madam.

Gon.
And let his knights have colder looks among you;
What grows of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:
I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,
That I may speak:—I'll write straight to my sister,
To hold my very course:—Prepare for dinner. [Exeunt.

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