Isa. Yonder he is, my lord; pray you speak to him.
Jer. Wax, wax, Horatio: I had need wax too,
Our foes will stride else over me and you.
Isa. He’s writing a love-letter to some Spanish lady,
And now he calls for wax to seal it.
Lor. God save you, good knight Marshal.
Jer. Who’s this? my lord Lorenzo? welcome, welcome;
You’re the last man I thought on, save the devil:
Much doth your presence grace our homely roof.
Lor. O Jeronimo,