Bob. Fair, and comely?
Pio. Oh Sir, the Paragon, the Non-paril
Of Sevil, the most wealthy Mine of Spain,
For beauty, and perfection.
Bob. Say you so?
Might not a man entreat a crtesie,
To walk along with you Signior, to peruse
This dainty Mine, though not to dig in't Signior?
Hauh—I hope you'll not denie me, being a stranger;
Though I am a Steward, I am flesh and blood,
And frail as other men.
Pio. Sir, blow your nose:
I dare not for the world: no, she is kept
By a great Don, Vitelli.
Bob. How?
Pio. 'Tis true.
Bob. See, things will veer about: this Don Vitelli
Am I to seek now, to deliver Letters
From my young Mistriss Clara: and I tell you,
Under the Rose, because you are a stranger,
And my special friend, I doubt there is
A little foolish love betwixt the parties,
Unknown unto my Lord.
Pio. Happy discovery:
My fruit begins to ripen: hark you Sir,
I would not wish you now, to give those Letters:
But home, and ope this to Madona Clara,
Which when I come I'll justifie, and relate
More amply, and particularly.
Bob. I approve
Your counsel, and will practise it: bazilos manos:
Here's two chewres chewr'd: when wisdom is imploy'd
'Tis ever thus: your more acquaintance, Signior:
I say not better, least you think, I thought not
Yours good enough. [Exit.
Enter Alguazier.