C[al]. Why dost thou look about?
Clarin. I have private business
That none must hear but your Lisander—
Cal. Where?
Clar. Nay, is not here, but would entreat this favour,
Some of your Balsam from your own hand given,
For he is much hurt, and that he thinks would cure him.
Cal. He shall have all, my Prayers too.
Clar. But conceive me,
It must be from your self immediately,
Pity so brave a Gentleman should perish,
He is superstitious, and he holds your hand
Of infinite power; I would not urge this, Madam,
But only in a mans extreams to help him.
Cal. Let him come (good wench) 'tis that I wish, I am happy in't,
My husband his true friend, my noble father,
The fair Olinda, all desire to see him;
He shall have many hands.
Clar. That he desires not,
Nor eyes but yours, to look upon his miseries,
For then he thinks 'twould be no perfect cure, Madam,
He would come private.
Cal. How can that be here?
I shall do wrong unto all those that honour him,
Besides my credit.
Clar. Dare ye not trust a hurt man?
Not strain a courtesie to save a Gentleman?
To save his life that has sav'd all your family?
A man that comes like a poor mortifi'd Pilgrim,
Only to beg a Blessing and depart again?
He would but see you, that he thinks would cure him.
But since you find fit reasons to the contrary,
And that it cannot stand with your clear honour,
Though you best know how well he has deserv'd of ye:
I'll send him word back though I grieve to do it,
Grieve at my soul, for certainly 'twill kill him,
What your will is.