Char. Take it, tis granted.
Roch. What?
Char. Nothing, my Lord.
Roch. Nothing is quickly granted.
Char. Faith, my Lord,
That nothing granted, is euen all I haue, [240]
For (all know) I haue nothing left to grant.
Roch. Sir, ha’ you any suite to me? Ill grant
You something, any thing.
Char. Nay surely, I that can
Giue nothing, will but sue for that againe. [245]
No man will grant mee any thing I sue for.
But begging nothing, euery man will giue’t.
Roch. Sir, the loue I bore your father, and the worth
I see in you, so much resembling his.
Made me thus send for you. And tender heere (Drawes a Curtayne. [250]
What euer you will take, gold, Iewels, both,
All, to supply your wants, and free your selfe.
Where heauenly vertue in high blouded veines
Is lodg’d, and can agree, men should kneele downe,
Adore, and sacrifice all that they haue; [255]
And well they may, it is so seldome seene.
Put off your wonder, and heere freely take
Or send your seruants. Nor, Sir, shall you vse
In ought of this, a poore mans fee, or bribe,
Vniustly taken of the rich, but what’s [260]
Directly gotten, and yet by the Law.
Char. How ill, Sir, it becomes those haires to mocke?
Roch. Mocke? thunder strike mee then.