Enter Cornelia sola, looking upon the picture of
Alberdure in a little Jewell, and singing. Enter the
Doctor and the Merchant following and hearkning to her.
THE SONG.
What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing,
It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing;
It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale;
And as my wits do best devise
Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies.
Haunce. O rare wench!
Cor. Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest With such perfection as within my brest.
Mar. Soft, maister Doctor.
Doct. Cornelia, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too sawcie by garr. Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake.
Han. Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump.
Doct. Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you. Me pray you not to say no.
Cor. Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me; I am sure you shall not marry me, And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no.