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,
Not to be over-rul'd: Idle old Man,

That still would manage those Authorities,
That he hath giv'n away!—Now, by my Life,
^{3 note}

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: prepare for dinner.

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