Cass. My Lord, your humors are most strange to us, The humble fortune of a servants life Should in your carelesse state so much displease.
Lass. Quod licet ingratum est, quod non licet acrius urit.
Flor. Could my childes beautie moove you so, my lord, When Lawe and dutie held it in restraint, And now (they both allowe it) be neglected?
Lass. I cannot rellish joyes that are enforst; For, were I shut in Paradice it selfe, I should as from a prison strive t'escape.
Luc. Haplesse Luci[li]a, worst in her best estate!
Lass. He seeke me out some unfrequented place Free from these importunities of love, And onelie love what mine owne fancie likes.
Luc. O staie, my Lord.
Flor. What meanes Earle Lassenbergh?
Cass. Sweete Earle, be kinder.
Lass. Let me go, I pray.