Count. I have it, 'tis now infus'd, be comforted.
Laz. Can there be that little hope yet left in nature? shall I once more erect up Trophies? Shall I enjoy the sight of my dear Saint, and bless my pallate with the best of creatures, ah good my Lord, by whom I breathe again, shall I receive this Being?
Count. Sir I have found by certain calculation, and setled revolution of the stars, the Fish is sent by the Lord Gondarino to his Mercer, now 'tis a growing hope to know where 'tis.
Laz. O 'tis far above the good of women, the Pathick cannot yield more pleasing titilation.
Count. But how to compass it, search, cast about, and bang your brai[n]s, Lazarello, thou art too dull and heavy to deserve a blessing.
Laz. My Lord, I will not be idle; now Lazarello, think, think, think.
Count. Yonder's my informer
And his fellow with table books, they nod at me
Upon my life, they have poor Lazarello, that beats
His brains about no such waighty matter, in for
Treason before this—
Laz. My Lord, what doe you think, if I should shave my self,
Put on midwives apparell, come in with a hand-kercher,
And beg a piece for a great bellied woman, or a sick child?
Count. Good, very good.