Flo.  What wretched state is this, Earle Cassimere, That I and my unhappie progenie Stand subject to the scornes of such as these!

Cass.  Grieve not, deare friends, these are but casuall darts. 
That wanton Fortune daily casts at those
In whose true bosomes perfect honour growes. 
Now, Dodypoll, to you:  you here refuse
Cornelias marriage? you’le none of her!

Doct.  Be garr, you be the prophet; not I by my trot.

Cass.  Nor you, maste[r] merchant? shee’s too poore for you!

Mar.  Not so, sir; but yet I am content to let fall my suite.

Cass. Cornelia, both dissembled they would have you; Which like you best?

Cor.  My Lord, my fortunes are no chusers now,—­ Nor yet accepters of discurtesies.

Cass.  You must chuse one here needs.

Doct.  By garr, no chuse mee, me clime to heaven, me sincke to hell, me goe here, me go dare, me no point deere, by garr.

Cass.  If you will none, whose judgement are too base To censure true desert, your betters will.

Flo.  What meanes Lord Cassimere by these strange words?

Cass.  I mean to take Cornelia to my wife.

Flo.  Will you, then, in my miserie, mock me too?

Cass.  I mock my friend in misery? heavens, scorne such!  Halfe my estate and halfe my life is thine; The rest shall be Cornelia’s and mine.

Doct.  O bitter shame, be garr.

Flo.  My Lord, I know your noble love to me
And do so highly your deserts esteeme
That I will never yeeld to such a match. 
Choose you a beautious dame of high degree
And leave Cornelia to my fate and mee.

Cass.  Ah, Flores, Flores, were not I assured
Both of thy noblenesse, thy birth and merite,
Yet my affection vow’d with friendships toong,
In spite of all base changes of the world
That tread on noblest head once stoopt by fortune
Should love and grace thee to my utmost power.
Cornelia is my wife:  what sayes my love? 
Cannot thy father’s friend entreat so much.

Cor.  My humble minde can nere presume To dreame in such high grace to my lowe seate.

Cass.  My graces are not ordered in my words.  Come love, come friend; for friendship now and love Shall both be joynde in one eternall league.

Flo.  O me, yet happy in so true a friend.

[Exeunt.

Doct.  Est possible, by garr? de foole Earle drinke my powder, I tinke.  Mershan tella mee.

Mar.  What, maister Doctor Doddie?

Doct.  Hab you de blew and de yellow Velvet, ha?

Mar.  What of that, sir?

Doct.  Be gar, me buy too, three peece for make de Cockes-combe pur the foole Earle, ha, ha, ha! [Exit.