Bap. I will not tax your breeding.
But it alters not your birth Sir, fare you well.
Ment. Oh Sir, doe not greive him,
He has too much affliction already. [Exeunt.
Enter a Sailor.
Ces. Every way scorn'd and lost,
Shame follow you
For I am grown most miserable.
Sail. Sir do you know a Ladies son in town here
They cal Cesario?
Cesar. There's none such I assure thee.
Sail. I was told you were the man.
Cesar. What's that to thee?
Sail. A —— on't. You are melancholy, will you drink Sir?