I know not how, a Traitor.
Cym. Take him hence,
The whole wotld ſhall not faue him.
Bel. Not too hot;
Firſt pay me for the Nurſing of thy Sonnes,
And let it be conſiſcate all, ſo ſoone
As I Haue receyu'd it.
Cym. Nurſing of my Sonnes?
Bel. I am too blunt, and ſawcy: heere's my knee:
Ere I ariſe, I will preſerre my Sonnes,
Then ſpare not the old Father. Mighty Sir,
Theſe two young Gentlemen that call me Father,
And thinke they are my Sonnes, are none of mine,
They are the yſſue of your Loynes, my Liege,
And blood of your begetting.
Cym. How? my iſſue.