Wink, wink, deare people, and you be wise,
  And shut, O shut, your weeping eyes.

      Enter Cornelia sola, looking upon the picture of
      Alberdure in a little Jewell, and singing.  Enter the
      Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her.

  THE SONG.

What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing, It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing; It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale; And as my wits do best devise Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies.

Haunce.  O rare wench!

Cor.  Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest With such perfection as within my brest.

Mar.  Soft, maister Doctor.

Doct. Cornelia, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too sawcie by garr.  Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake.

Han.  Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump.

Doct.  Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you.  Me pray you not to say no.

Cor.  Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me; I am sure you shall not marry me, And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no.

Mar.  What say you to this, maister Doctor.  Mistresse, let me speake.  That I do love you I dare not say, least I should offend you; that I would marry you I had rather you should conceive then I should utter:  and I do live or die upon your Monasi[la]ble, I or no.

Doct.  By gar if you will see de Marshan hang himselfe, say no:  a good shasse by garr.

Han.  A filthy French jest as I am a Dutch gentleman.

Mar.  Mistresse, Ile bring you from Arabia, Turckie, and India, where the Sunne doth rise, Miraculous Jemmes, rare stuffes of pretious worke, To beautifie you more then all the paintings Of women with their coullour-fading cheekes.

Doct.  You bring stuffe for her? you bring pudding.  Me vit one, two, tree pence more den de price buy it from dee and her too by garr:  by garr dow sella’ dy fader for two pence more.  Madam, me gieve you restoratife; me give you tings (but toush you) make you faire; me gieve you tings make you strong; me make you live six, seaven, tree hundra yeere:  you no point so, Marshan.  Marshan run from you two, tree, foure yere together:  who shall kisse you dan?  Who shall embrace you dan?  Who shall toush your fine hand? o shall, o sweete, by garr.

Mar.  Indeed, M. Doctor, your commodities are rare; a guard of Urinals in the morning; a plaguie fellow at midnight; a fustie Potticarie ever at hand with his fustian drugges, attending your pispot worship.

Doct.  By garr, skurvy marshan, me beat dee starck dead, and make dee live againe for sav’a de law.

Han.  A plaguie marshan by gar, make the doctor angre.