Gentlew. How does your [good] Lordship?
Gond. Sick of the spleen.
Gentlew. How?
Gond. Sick.
Gentlew. Will you chew a Nutmeg, you shall not refuse it, it is very comfortable.
Gond. Nay, now thou art come, I know it
Is the Devils Jubile, Hell is broke loose:
My Lord, if ever I have done you service,
Or have deserv'd a favour of your Grace,
Let me be turn'd upon some present action,
Where I may sooner die, than languish thus;
Your Grace hath her petition, grant it her, and ease me now at last.
Duke. No Sir, you must endure.
Gentlew. For my petition, I hope your Lordship hath remembred me.
Oria. 'Faith I begin to pity him, Arrigo, take her off, bear her away, say her petition is granted.