Cast. Of my Monimia?
Pol. No. Good-day.
Cast. In haste?
Methinks my Polydore appears in sadness.
Pol. Indeed, and so to me does my Castalio.
Cast. Do I?
Pol. Thou dost.
Cast. Alas! I've wondrous reason;
I'm strangely altered, brother, since I saw thee.
Pol. Why?
Cast. Oh! to tell thee would but put thy heart
To pain. Let me embrace thee but a little,
And weep upon thy neck; I would repose
Within thy friendly bosom all my follies;
For thou wilt pardon them, because they're mine.
Pol. Be not too credulous; consider first;
Friends may be false. Is there no friendship false?