Gent. I see it, Sir, and will report as much.
Nic. You will report a lye then; ha, ha, ha.
My Lungs will not afford me wind enough
To laugh my passions out. To gaine a Crowne,
Who would not at a funerall laugh and sing?
All men of wisedome would, and so will I:
Yet to the worlds eye, I am drown’d in teares,
And held most carefull of the King and State,
When I meane nothing lesse. Lorenzo’s dead:
The scornefull Princesse, that refus’d my loue,