Men. My heart, my heart, you shame me by your thanks,
For service that the veriest churl had paid
For what you did me, Lope.
Why, I’m your debtor still. But now, enough!
I cannot steal more time from business;
The King expects me.
Urr. I too must abroad.
Lope. Would I could wait on both—but, as it is,
I think my father’s self would waive his right,
In favour of our common benefactor.