Serv. No?
Sham. Scarce yet, or yet:
Although I see 'tis he. Why can a thing,
That's but my self divided, be so false?
Serv. Nay, do but mark how the chair plays hi part too:
How amorosly 'tis bent.
Sh[a]m. Hell take thy bad thoughts,
For they are strange ones. Never take delight
To make a torment worse. Look on 'em heaven,
For that's a brother: send me a fair enemy,
And take him; for a fouler Fiend there breathes not:
I will not sin to think there's ill in her,
But what's of his producing.
Yet goodness, whose inclosure is but flesh,
Holds out oft times but sorrily. But as black Sir,
As ever kindred was: I hate mine own bloud,
Because i[t] is so near thine. Live without honesty,
And mayst thou dye with an unmoist'ned eye,
And no tear follow thee. [Ex. Shamont, Servant.
La. Y'are wond'rous merry Sir; I would your Brother heard you.
Sold. Oh my Sister,
I would not out o'th' way, let fall my words Lady,
For the precisest humor.
Enter passionate Lord.
Pas. Yea, so close.
Sold. Th'are merry, that's the worst you can report on 'em:
Th'are neither dangerous, nor immodest.
Pas. So Sir,
Shall I believe you, think you?