Nym. How?—the prince? Would he only stood cross to my wishes, he should find me an Italian.
Herc. How an Italian? 107
Herod. By thy aid an Italian; dear Faunus, thou art now wriggled into the prince’s bosom, and thy sweet hand should minister that nectar to him should make him immortal. Nymphadoro, in direct phrase, thou shouldst murder the prince, so revenge thine own wrongs, and be rewarded for that revenge.
Herc. Afore the light of my eyes, I think I shall admire, wonder at you. What! ha’ ye plots, projects, correspondences, and stratagems? Why are not you in better place? 117
Enter Sir Amoroso.
Who’s this?
Herod. My eldest brother, Sir Amoroso Debile-Dosso.
Herc. O, I know him! God bless thine eyes, sweet Sir Amoroso! A rouse—a vin de monte[167] to the health of thy chine,[168] my dear sweet signior!
Sir Amor. Pardon me, sir; I drink no wine this spring.
Herod. O no, sir; he takes the diet this spring always. Boy, my brother’s bottle.