Asot. Three years of feeding
On cullises and jelly, though his cooks
Lard all he eats with marrow, or his doctors
Pour in his mouth restoratives as he sleeps,
Will not recover him.
Timag. But your ladyship looks
Sad on the matter, as if you had miss'd
Your ten-crown amber possets, good to smooth
The cutis, as you call it.
Coris. Pray you, forbear;
I am an alter'd woman.
Timag. So it seems;
A part of your honour's ruff stands out of rank too.
Coris. No matter, I have other thoughts.
Timag. O strange!
Not ten days since it would have vex'd you more
Than the loss of your good name.
Enter Leosthenes and Diphilus with a Guard.
How now, friend!
Looks our Cleora lovely?
Leost. In my thoughts, sir.
Timag. But why this guard?