Ha? have I friends, and know ’em not? my name is Diego,
     But if either I remember you or your Father,
     Or Nova Hispania (I was never there Sir)
     Or any kindred that you have—­for heaven-sake, Master,
     Let’s cast about a little, and consider,
     We may dream out our time.

     Lea.

     It seems I am deceiv’d, Sir,
     Yet, that you are Don Lopez all men tell me,
     The Curate here, and have been some time, Sir,
     And you the Sexton Diego, such I am sent to,
     The letter tells as much:  may be they are dead,
     And you of the like names succeed:  I thank ye Gentlemen,
     Ye have done honestly, in telling truth,
     I might have been forward else.  For to that Lopez,
     That was my Fathers friend, I had a charge,
     (A charge of mony) to deliver (Gentlemen)
     Five hundred Duckets, a poor small gratuity,
     But since you are not he—­

     Lop.

     Good Sir, let me think,
     I pray ye be patient,
     Pray ye stay a little,
     Nay, let me remember, I beseech ye stay, Sir.

     Die.

     An honest noble friend, that sends so lovingly;
     An old friend too; I shall remember sure, Sir.

     Lop.

     Thou sayst true Diego.

     Die.

     ’Pray ye consider quickly,
     Doe, doe, by any means, me thinks already
     A grave staid gentleman comes to my memory.

     Lea.

     He’s old indeed, sir.

     Die.

     With a goodly white Beard,
     (For now he must be so:  I know he must be)
     Signior Alonzo, Master.

     Lop.

     I begin to have him.

     Die.

     H’as been from hence, about some twenty years, sir.

     Lea.

     Some five and twenty, sir.

     Die.

     You say most true, Sir,
     Just to an hour; ’tis now just five and twenty,
     A fine straight timber’d man, and a brave soldier,
     He married:  let me see,—­

     Lea.

     De Castro’s Daughter.

     Die.

     The very same.

     Lea.

     Thou art a very Rascal. 
     De Castro is the Turk to thee, or any thing: 
     The Mony rubbs ’em into strange remembrances,
     For as many Duckets more they would remember Adam.

     Lop.

     Give me your hand, you are welcome to your country,
     Now I remember plainly, manifestly,
     As freshly, as if yesterdy I had seen him,
     Most heartily welcome:  sinfull that I am,
     Most sinfull man! why should I lose this Gentleman? 
     This loving old Companion? we had all one soul, sir,
     He dwelt here hard by, at a handsome—­