Bar.

     Didst thou know him,
     Thou wouldst think as I do:  he disquiet thee? 
     Thou mayst wear him next thy heart, and yet not warm him. 
     His mind (poor man) ‘s o’th’ Law, how to live after,
     And not on lewdness:  on my Conscience
     He knows not how to look upon a Woman
     More than by reading what Sex she is.

     Amar.

     I do not like it, Sir.

     Bar.

     Do’st thou not see (Fool)
     What presents he sends hourly in his gratefulness? 
     What delicate meats?

     Amar.

     You had best trust him at your Table,
     Do, and repent it, do.

     Bar.

     If thou be’st willing,
     By my troth, I think he might come, he’s so modest,
     He never speaks:  there’s part of that he gave me,
     He’ll eat but half a dozen bits, and rise immediately,
     Even as he eats, he studies:  he’ll not disquiet thee,
     Do as thou pleasest, Wife.

     Amar.

     What means this Wood-cock?

     [Knock within.

     Bar.

     Retire, Sweet, there’s one knocks:  come in, your business.

     Enter Servant.

     Ser.

     My Lord, Don Henrique, would entreat ye, Sir,
     To come immediately, and speak with him,
     He has business of some moment.

Bar.

I’le attend him,
I must be gone:  I pre’thee think the best, Wife,
At my return, I’le tell thee more, good morrow;
Sir, keep ye close, and study hard:  an hour hence
I’le read a new Case to ye.—­

[Exit.

[Leandro within.]

Lean.

I’le be ready.

Amar.

So many hundred Duckets, to ly scurvily? 
And learn the pelting Law? this sounds but slenderly,
But very poorly:  I would see this fellow,
Very fain see him, how he looks:  I will find
To what end, and what study:  there’s the place: 
I’le go o’th’ other side, and take my Fortune. 
I think there is a window.

[Exit.

Enter Leandro.

Lean.

He’s gone out
Now, if I could but see her:  she is not this way: 
How nastily he keeps his house! my Chamber,
If I continue long, will choak me up,
It is so damp:  I shall be mortified
For any woma[n], if I stay a month here: 
I’le in, and strike my Lute, that sound may call her.

[Exit.

Lute and Song.

1.

Dearest do not you delay me, Since thou knowest I must be gone; Wind and Tide ’tis thought doth stay me, But ’tis wind that must be blown From that breath, whose native smell Indian Odours far excel.

     2.