Mar. He kisses perfectly.
Nay, and the Devil be n[o] worse: you are Perolot.
Per. I was, and sure I should be: Can a small distance,
And ten short moneths take from your memory
The figure of your friend, that you stand wondring?
Be not amaz'd, I am the self-same Per[o]lot,
Living, and well; Son to Gentille, and Brother
To virtuous Casta; to your beauteous Mistriss,
The long since poor betroth'd, and still vow'd servant.
Mar. Nay, sure he lives. My Lord Lavall, your Master,
Brought news long since to your much mourning Mistriss,
Ye dy'd at Orleance; bound her with an oath too,
To keep it secret from your aged Father,
Lest it should rack his heart.
Per. A pretty secret
To try my Mistriss Love, and make my welcome
From travel of more worth; from whence, Heaven be thanked,
My business for the Duke dispatch'd to th' purpose,
And all my money spent, I am come home, wench.
How does my Mistriss? for I have not yet seen
Any, nor will I, till I do her service.
Mar. But did the Lord Laval know of your love, Sir, before he went?
Per. Yes, by much more force he got it,
But none else knew; upon his promise too
And honor to conceal it faithfully
Till my return; to further which, he told me,
My business being ended, from the Duke
He would procure a pension for my service,
Able to make my Mistriss a fit Husband.
Mar. But are you sure of this?
Per. Sure as my sight, wench.
Mar. Then is your Lord a base dissembling villain,
A Devil Lord, the damn'd Lord of all lewdness,
And has betraid ye, and undone my Mistriss,
My poor sweet Mistriss: oh that leacher Lord,
Who, poor soul, since was married.
Per. To whom, Maria?