Gon.
My father strike my gentleman?

Stew.
Ay, madam.

Gon.
By day and night, he wrongs me; I'll not endure it:
His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us
On ev'ry 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.
I understand, and will obey you, madam.

Gon.
Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows: I'd have it come to question.
If he distaste it, let him to my sister,
Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,
Not to be over-rul'd: idle old Man,
That still would manage those authorities,
That he hath given away.—
Remember what I've 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'll write strait to my sister to hold my course: away!