Van. Hort ye, broder! will ye let den ander heb your wife? nempt her, nempt her, yourself?
Alv. No, no; tush, you be de fool, here be dat sal spoil marriage of him. You have deceive me of de fine wensh, Signor Harvey, but I sal deceive you of de mush land. [Aside.
Har. Are all things sure, father? is all despatched?
Pis. What interest we have, we yield it you.
Are you now satisfied, or rests there aught?
Har. Nay, father, nothing doth remain but thanks:
Thanks to yourself first that, disdaining me,
Yet lov'd my lands, and for them gave a wife.
But next unto Alvaro let me turn,
To courteous, gentle, loving, kind Alvaro!
That rather than to see me die for love—
For very love—would lose his beauteous love.
Van. Ha, ha, ha!
Del. Signor Alvaro, give him de ting quickly sal make him die, autrement you sal lose de fine wensh.
Alv. Oyme! che havesse al hora appressata la mano al mio coro, O suem curato ate, I che longo sei tu avinato, O cieli! O terra!
Pis. Am I awake, or do deluding dreams
Make that seem true which most my soul did fear?
Har. Nay, faith, father, it's very certain true,
I am as well as any man on earth.
Am I sick, sirs? Look here, is Harvey sick?