Enter Julia with the pomegranate.
Tis well done, Julia, quickely cut it up;
And bring a cup of wine, or let me doo't.
Otho. I see I shall be plagu'd with mine owne wit;
Being asham'd to speake, I writ my minde.—
Were you my friends, you would not martyr me
With needlesse phisicke; fie upon this trash,
The very sight is loathsome.
Con. Take it up: But let me see, what letter's that that dropt? Came it from you, or from the Spanish fruit?
Ju. Tis all the graines that the pomegranate had.
Con. Then theres some trechery within these graines: Ile breake it up. And tis directed to my Euphrata.
Euph. What may the tenure be? I pray thee read it.
[He opens the letter & reads.
Otho. O fall upon me some wind-shaken turret
To hide me from the anger of my friend,
O from his frowne! because he is my friend.
Were he an enemie, I would be bold;
But kindnes makes this wound. O, this horror!
The words of friends, are stronger then their power.
Con. Withdraw, good Julia. [Exit Julia.