Lass.  I, I, put on me what attire you will; My discontent, that dwels within me still.

[Exeunt

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Haunce solus.

Hans.  Whom shall a man trust? a Painter?  No:  a servant?  No:  a bed fellowe?  No:  For, seeming for to see, it falls out right:  All day a Painter, and an Earle at night.

    Enter Doctor.

Doct.  Ho, Zaccharee, bid Ursula brushe my two, tree fine Damaske gowne; spread de rishe coverlet on de faire bed; vashe de fine plate; smoake all de shambra vit de sweete perfume.

Hans.  Heer’s the Doctor:  what a gaping his wisedom keepes i’the streete!  As if he could not have spoken all this within.

Doct.  Ho, Zaccharee, if de grand patient come, you finde me signior Flores.

Hans.  By your leave, maister Doctor.

Doct. Hans, my very speciall friend; fait and trot, me be right glad for see you veale.

Hans.  What, do you make a Calfe of me, M. Doctor?

Doct.  O no, pardona moy; I say vell, be glad for see you vell, in good health.

Hans.  O, but I am sick, M. Doctor; very exceeding sick, sir.

Doct.  Sick? tella me, by garr; me cure you presently.

Hans.  A dead palsey, M. Doctor, a dead palsey.

Doct.  Veare? veare?

Hans.  Heere, M. Doctor; I cannot feele, I cannot feele.

Doct.  By garr, you be de brave, merry man; de fine proper man; de very fine, brave, little, propta sweet Jack man; by garr, me loov’a you, me honour you, me kisse’a your foote.

Hans.  You shall not stoope so lowe, good M. Doctor; kisse higher if it please you.

Doct.  In my trot me honour you.

Hans.  I, but you give me nothing, sir.

Doct.  No? by garr, me giv’a de high commendation passe all de gold, precious pearle in de vorld.

Hans.  I, sir, passe by it, you meane so, sir.  Well, I shall have your good word, I see, M. Doctor.

Doct.  I sayt.

Hans.  But not a rag of money.

Doct.  No, by my trot, no point money; me give de beggra de money, no point de brave man.

Hans.  Would I were not so brave in your mouth.—­But I can tell you newes, maister Doctor.

Doct.  Vat be dat?

Hans.  The young Prince hath drunke himselfe mad at my maisters to day.

Doct.  By garr, drunke, I tinck.

Hans.  No, sir, starke mad; he cryes out as if the towne were a fier.

Doct.  By garr, me suspect a ting.

Hans.  Nay, I can tell you more newes yet.

Doct.  Vat newes?

Hans.  If your cap be of capacitie to conceive it now, so it is.  Ile deale with you by way of Interrogation:—­