Fred. You are too bitter,
I would not have him worse.
Yet I shall see you hamper'd one day Lady,
I do not doubt it, for this heresie.
Clo. I'le burn before; come pre'thee leave this sadness;
This walking by thy self to see the Devil,
This mumps, this Lachrymæ, this love in sippets;
It fits thee like a French-hood.
Fra. Does it so?
I am sure it fits thee to be ever talking,
And nothing to the purpose, take up quickly;
Thy wit will founder of all four else wench,
If thou hold'st this pace; take up when I bid thee.
Clora. Before your Brother, fy?
Fred. I can endure it.
Enter Jacomo.
Clo. Here's Raw-head come again; Lord how he looks!
Pray we 'scape with broken pates.
Fra. Were I he,
Thou should'st not want thy wish, he has been drinking,
Has he not Frederick?
Fred. Yes, but do not find it.
Clor. Peace and let's hear his wisdom.