Sid. Then, sir, I am sure I will most heartily.
Sir Per. I believe it, friend Sidney,—and I thank you.—I have nai friend to depend upon, but yourself. My heart is almost broke.—I cannot help these tears,—And, to tell you the fact at once—your friend Charles is struck with a most dangerous malady,—a kind of insanity.—You see I cannot help weeping when I think of it;—in short this Constantia, I am afraid, has cast an evil eye upon him.—Do you understand me?
Sid. Not very well, sir.
Sir Per. Why, he is grievously smitten with the love of her;—and, I am afraid, will never be cured without a little of your assistance.
Sid. Of my assistance! pray, sir, in what manner?
Sir Per. In what manner? Lord, Maister Sidney, how can you be so dull? Why, how is any man cured of his love till a wench, but by ganging to bed till her? Now do you understand me?
Sid. Perfectly, sir—perfectly.
Sir Per. Vary weel.—Now then, my very guid friend, guin you wou'd but give him that hint, and take an opportunity to speak a guid word for him till the wench;—and guin you wou'd likewise cast about a little now,—and contrive to bring them together once,—why, in a few days after he wou'd nai care a pinch of snuff for her. [Sidney starts up.] What is the matter with you, man?—What the devil gars you start and look so astounded?
Sid. Sir, you amaze me.—In what part of my mind or conduct have you found that baseness, which entitles you to treat me with this indignity?
Sir Per. Indignity! What indignity do you mean, sir? Is asking you to serve a friend with a wench an indignity? Sir, am I not your patron and benefactor? Ha?