The Tragicall History
Ben.
A plague upon you, let me sleepe a while.
Emp.
I blame thee not to sleepe much having such a head of thine own.
Sax.
Look up Benvolio, 'tis the Emperour calls.
Ben.
The Emperour? where? O zounds my head.
Emp.
Nay, and thy hornes hold, 'tis no matter for thy head, for that's arm'd sufficiently.
Faust.
Why how now sir Knight? what hang'd by the hornes? this most horrible: fie, fie, pull in your head for shame, let not all the world wonder at you.
Ben.
Zounds Doctor, is this your villainy?
Faust.
O say not so sir: the Doctor has no skill,
No Art, no cunning, to present these Lords,
Or bring before this royall Emperour
The mighty Monarch, warlike Alexander.
If Faustus doe it, you are straight resolv'd,
In bold Acteons shape to turne a Stagge.
And therefore my Lord so please your Majesty,
Ile raise a kennell of Hounds shall hunt him so,
And all his footmanship shall scarce prevaile,
To keepe his Carkasse from their bloudy phangs.
Ho, Belimote, Argiron, Asterote.
Ben.
Hold, hold: Zounds hee'le raise up a kennell of Divels, I think anon: good my lord, intreat for me! s'bloud I am never able to endure these torments.
Emp.
Then good M. Doctor,
Let me intreat you to remove his hornes,
He has done Pennance now sufficiently.
Faust.
My gracious Lord, not so much for injury done to me, as to delight your Majesty with some mirth, hath Faustus justly requited this injurious Knight, which being all I desire, I am content to remove his hornes: Mephostophilis, transforme him; and hereafter sir, looke you speake well of Schollers.
Ben.
Speake well of yee? 's blood, and Schollers be such Cuckold-makers to clap hornes of honest mens heads o' this order, I'le nere trust smooth faces, and small ruffes more. But
