Otho. Shee hath read the letter that I lately sent her In a pomegranat, by those words I hope.
Con. Why speake you not? is't love or melancholy?
Otho. If upon love my grief is melancholy?
Con. Ile have the best Phisitians here in Meath Assay by art to cure that maladie.
Euph. Gainst mellancholy minds your onely Phisick
Our Saxon doctors hold that principle.
Now I remember you did lately send me
A choice pomegranate; fetch it, Julia.
Some of those graines well stir'd in Gascoine wine
Is present remedie.
Otho. Madam, Ile none: Of all fruits, that I hate.
Euph. And commended it So highly by the messenger that brought it!
Con. Twas well remembred, you shall take a graine.
Otho. You will but vexe me.
Con. So his melancholly Doth make him froward with his dearest friend.