Val. Oh thou dealest ill, To render so much spleene for my good will.
Fred. Torment farre worse then death.
Valen. Ile follow thee: Deare Fredericke, like thy face, be thy words faire.
Fre. This monstrous dealing doubles my deaths care.
Valen. What shall I call thee to allay this ire?
Fred. Why, call me son and blush at thy desire.
Valen. I never brought thee foorth.
Fred. Art thou not wife Unto my father?
Val. Thinke upon thy life:
It lyes like mine, onely in gentle breath;
Or that thy father's dead, and after death
'Tis in my choice to marry whom I will.
Fred. Any but me.