Fred. I'le tell her what ye say, Sir. [Exit Fred.
Duke. My dear brother,
Ye are a merry Gentleman.
Petr. Now will the sport be,
To observe her alterations; how like a wildfire
She'll leap into your bosom; then seeing me,
Her conscience, and her fears creeping upon her,
Dead as a fowl at souse, she'll sink.
Duke. Fair Brother,
I must intreat you—
Petr. I conceive your mind, Sir,
I will not chide her: yet ten Duckets, Duke,
She falls upon her knees, ten more she dare not—
Duke. I must not have her frighted.
Petr. Well you shall not:
Enter Frederick, and Peter.
But like a Summers evening against heat,
Mark how I'le guild her cheeks!
John. How now?