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 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.
He's coming, madam, I hear him.

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.
Remember what I have said.

Stew.

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: prepare for dinner.