Coz. Nay, blush not, Sanazarro; we are proud
Of what we build up in thee; nor can our
Election be disparaged, since we have not
Received into our bosom and our grace
A glorious[66] lazy drone, grown fat with feeding
On others' toil, but an industrious bee,
That crops the sweet flowers of our enemies,
And every happy evening returns
Loaden with wax and honey to our hive.
Sanaz. My best endeavours never can discharge
The service I should pay.
Coz. Thou art too modest;
But we will study how to give, and when,
Enter Giovanni and Contarino.
Before it be demanded.——Giovanni!
My nephew! let me eye thee better, boy.
In thee, methinks, my sister lives again;
For her love I will be a father to thee,
For thou art my adopted son.
Giov. Your servant,
And humblest subject.
Coz. Thy hard travel, nephew,
Requires soft rest, and therefore we forbear,
For the present, an account how thou hast spent
Thy absent hours. See, signiors, see, our care,
Without a second bed, provides you of
A hopeful prince. Carry him to his lodgings,
And, for his further honour, Sanazarro,
With the rest, do you attend him.
Giov. All true pleasures
Circle your highness!
Sanaz. As the rising sun,
We do receive you.