Young Lo. I but art thou very certainly sure of it?
Elder Lo. As sure Sir, as I tell it.
Young Lo. But art thou sure he came not up again?
Elder Lo. He may come up, but ne're to call you Brother.
Young Lo. But art sure he had water enough to drown him?
Elder Lo. Sure Sir, he wanted none.
Young Lo. I would not have him want, I lov'd him better; here I forgive thee: and i'faith be plain, how do I bear it?
Elder Lo. Very wisely Sir.
Young Lo. Fill him some wine. Thou dost not see me mov'd, these transitorie toyes ne're trouble me, he's in a better place, my friend I know't. Some fellows would have cryed now, and have curst thee, and faln out with their meat, and kept a pudder; but all this helps not, he was too good for us, and let God keep him: there's the right use on't friend. Off with thy drink, thou hast a spice of sorrow makes thee dry: fill him another. Savill, your Master's dead, and who am I now Savill? Nay, let's all bear it well, wipe Savill wipe, tears are but thrown away: we shall have wenches now, shall we not Savill?
Savill. Yes Sir.