Soph. No sadness my son this day.
Rol. Pray you eat,
Something is here you have lov'd; taste of this dish,
It will prepare your stomach.
Ot. Thank you brother: I am not now dispos'd to eat.
Rol. Or that,
You put us out of heart man, come, these bak't meats
Were ever your best dyet.
Ot. None, I thank you.
Soph. Are you well, noble child?
Ot. Yes, gracious Mother.
Rol. Give him a cup of wine, then, pledge the health,
Drink it to me, I'le give it to my Mother.
Soph. Do, my best child.
Ot. I must not, my best Mother,
Indeed I dare not: for of late, my body
Has been much weakned by excess of dyet;
The promise of a feaver hanging on me,
And even now ready, if not by abstinence—