Mar. Good Signior Flores, I am sorry for you.
Doct. Marshan, parle vu pen. Be garr, me vor grand love me beare de good Mershan, vor de grand worte, be garr, and de grand deserte me sea in you, de bravea Mershan, me no point rivall; you have Cornelia alone, by my trot, ha, ha, ha!
Mar. M. Doctor Doddie, surnam'd the Amorous'de, I will overcome you in curtesie, your selfe shall have her.
Doct. No, by garr, Marshan: you bring de fine tings from de strange land vere de Sunne do rise, de Jewell, de fine stuffe vor de brave gowne: me no point. Come, by garr, you have Cornel.
Cass. Hands off, base Doctor! she despiseth thee, Too good for thee to touch or looke upon.
Flo. What wretched state is this, Earle Cassimere, That I and my unhappie progenie Stand subject to the scornes of such as these!
Cass. Grieve not, deare friends, these are but casuall darts. That wanton Fortune daily casts at those In whose true bosomes perfect honour growes. Now, Dodypoll, to you: you here refuse Cornelias marriage? you'le none of her!
Doct. Be garr, you be the prophet; not I by my trot.
Cass. Nor you, maste[r] merchant? shee's too poore for you!
Mar. Not so, sir; but yet I am content to let fall my suite.