Leo. Give you good ev'n Sir; If you be suffer'd thus, we shall have fine sport. I will be sorry yet.
Enter 2 Gentlemen.
1 Gent. How now, how does he?
Leo. Nay, if I tell ye, hang me, or any man else That hath his nineteen wits; he has the bots I think, He groans, and roars, and kicks.
2 Gent. Will he speak yet?
Leo. Not willingly:
Shortly he will not see a man; if ever
I look'd upon a Prince so metamorphos'd,
So juggl'd into I know not what, shame take me;
This 'tis to be in love.
1 Gent. Is that the cause on't?
Leo. What is it not the cause of but bear-baitings?
And yet it stinks much like it: out upon't;
What giants, and what dwarffs, what owls and apes,
What dogs, and cats it makes us? men that are possest with it,
Live as if they had a Legion of Devils in 'em,
And every Devil of a several nature;
Nothing but Hey-pass, re-pass: where's the Lieutenant?
Has he gather'd up the end on's wits again?
1 Gent. He is alive: but you that talk of wonders, Shew me but such a wonder as he is now.
Leo. Why? he was ever at the worst a wonder.