all this, I pray? you have not the desease, I
hope?

_Alb_. No, I warrant thee.

_Pea_. At a venture, sir, Ile change. Nothing venter, nothing enter.

_Alb_. Come, letts be gone.

_Pea_. Backe, sir, I pray.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Hardenbergh with a guard, bringing in
Cassimere, Flores, Doctor, Marchant, Cornelia,
Motto, and Raphe_.

_Har_. Thus, _Flores_, you apparantly perceive
How vaine was your ambition and what dangers,
All unexpected, fall upon your head,
Povertie, exile, guiltinesse of heart,
And endlesse miserie to you and yours.
Your goods are seized alreadie for the Duke;
And, if Prince _Alberdure_ be found deceast,
The least thou canst expect is banishment.
Earle _Cassimere_, I take[76] your word of pledge
Of his appearance. Pages of the Prince,
Come guide me straight where his drownd bodie lies,
Drownes his father in eternall teares.

[_Exit cum servis; manet Al_.

_Mot_. Drownes him and will hang us.

_Mar_. Good Signior _Flores_, I am sorry for you.

_Doct_. _Marshan_, parle vu pen. Be garr, me vor grand love me beare de
good Mershan, vor de grand worte, be garr, and de grand deserte me sea
in you, de bravea Mershan, me no point rivall; you have _Cornelia_
alone, by my trot, ha, ha, ha!

_Mar_. M. Doctor _Doddie_, surnam'd the Amorous'de, I will overcome you
in curtesie, your selfe shall have her.

_Doct_. No, by garr, Marshan: you bring de fine tings from de strange
land vere de Sunne do rise, de Jewell, de fine stuffe vor de brave
gowne: me no point. Come, by garr, you have _Cornel_.

_Cass_. Hands off, base Doctor! she despiseth thee,
Too good for thee to touch or looke upon.

_Flo_. What wretched state is this, Earle _Cassimere_,
That I and my unhappie progenie
Stand subject to the scornes of such as these!

_Cass_. Grieve not, deare friends, these are but casuall darts.
That wanton Fortune daily casts at those
In whose true bosomes perfect honour growes.
Now, _Dodypoll_, to you: you here refuse
_Cornelias_ marriage? you'le none of her!

_Doct_. Be garr, you be the prophet; not I by my trot.

_Cass_. Nor you, maste[r] merchant? shee's too poore for you!

_Mar_. Not so, sir; but yet I am content to let fall my suite.

_Cass_. _Cornelia_, both dissembled they would have you;
Which like you best?

_Cor_. My Lord, my fortunes are no chusers now,--
Nor yet accepters of discurtesies.

_