Cla. Is she so loving still?
Pen. She is mad with Love,
As mad as ever unworm'd dog was, Signior,
And does so weep, and curse, for your prevention,
Your crosses in your love; it frets me too,
I am fall'n away to nothing, to a spindle,
Grown a meer man of mat, no soul within me,
Pox o' my Master, Sir, will that content ye?
Cla. This rogue but cozens me, and she neglects me,
Upon my life there are some other gamesters,
Nearer the wind than I, and that prevents me,
Is there no other holds acquaintance with her?
Prethee be true, be honest, do not mock me,
Thou knowest her heart, no former interest
She has vow'd a favour too? and cannot handsomely
Go off, but by regaining such a friendship?
There are a thousand handsome men, young, wealthy,
That will not stick at any rate, nor danger,
To gain so sweet a prize; nor can I blame her,
If where she finds a comfort, she deal cunningly,
I am a stranger yet.
Pen. Ye are all she looks for,
And if there be any other, she neglects all,
And all for you: I would you saw how grievously
And with what hourly lamentations.
Cla. I know thou flatter'st me; tell me but truth,
Look here, look well, the best meat in the Dukedom,
The rarest, and the choicest of all Diets,
Th[is] will I give thee, but to satisfie me;
That is, not to dissemble; this rare Lobster,
This Pheasant of the Sea, this dish for Princes,
And all this thou shalt enjoy, eat all thy self,
Have good Greek Wine, or any thing belongs to it,
A wench, if it desire one.
Pen. All this, Signior?
Cla. All, and a greater far than this.
Pen. A greater?
Cla. If thou deserve by telling truth.
Pen. A wench too?