Ros. I doubt the cause, my lord;
For were 't but[425] that, I dare engage my life
She would be won to love him; she has plac'd
Already her affections on some other.
Pol. How should I find it out?
Ros. Why thus, my lord.
There's never man nor woman that e'er lov'd,
But chose some bosom friend, whose close converse
Sweeten'd their joys, and eas'd their burden'd minds
Of such a working secret. Thus, no doubt,
Has my young lady done; and but her woman,
Who should it be? 'tis she must out with it:
Her secrecy, if wit cannot o'erreach,
Gold shall corrupt; leave that to me, my lord.
But if her lady's heart do yet stand free
And unbequeath'd to any, your command
And father's jurisdiction interpos'd
Will make her love the count. No kind of means
Must want to draw her.
Pol. Thou art my oracle,
My brain, my soul, my very being, Roscio;
Walk on and speed, while I but second thee.
Cler. It is even so; Count Virro is your rival;
See how th' old ape smugs up his mouldy chaps
To seize the bit?
Phil. He must not, if I live;
But yet her father brings him: he has the means
That I shall ever want.
Cler. If he do marry her,
Revenge it nobly, make him a cuckold, boy.
Phil. Thou jest'st, that feel'st it not. Prythee, let's go.
Cler. Stay, I'll but curse him briefly for thy sake.
If thou dost marry her, may'st thou be made
A cuckold without profit, and ne'er get
An office by it, nor favour at the Court;
But may thy large ill-gotten treasury
Be spent in her bought lust, and thine own gold
Bring thee adulterers; so, farewell, good count.
[Exeunt Philocles and Clerimont.
Enter Servant.