Cass_. You must chuse one here needs.

_Doct_. By garr, no chuse mee, me clime to heaven, me sincke to hell,
me goe here, me go dare, me no point deere, by garr.

_Cass_. If you will none, whose judgement are too base
To censure true desert, your betters will.

_Flo_. What meanes Lord _Cassimere_ by these strange words?

_Cass_. I mean to take _Cornelia_ to my wife.

_Flo_. Will you, then, in my miserie, mock me too?

_Cass_. I mock my friend in misery? heavens, scorne such!
Halfe my estate and halfe my life is thine;
The rest shall be _Cornelia's_ and mine.

_Doct_. O bitter shame, be garr.

_Flo_. My Lord, I know your noble love to me
And do so highly your deserts esteeme
That I will never yeeld to such a match.
Choose you a beautious dame of high degree
And leave _Cornelia_ to my fate and mee.

_Cass_. Ah, _Flores, Flores_, were not I assured
Both of thy noblenesse, thy birth and merite,
Yet my affection vow'd with friendships toong,
In spite of all base changes of the world
That tread on noblest head once stoopt by fortune
Should love and grace thee to my utmost power.
_Cornelia_ is my wife: what sayes my love?
Cannot thy father's friend entreat so much.

_Cor_. My humble minde can nere presume
To dreame in such high grace to my lowe seate.

_Cass_. My graces are not ordered in my words.
Come love, come friend; for friendship now and love
Shall both be joynde in one eternall league.

_Flo_. O me, yet happy in so true a friend.

[_Exeunt_.

_Doct_. Est possible, by garr? de foole Earle drinke my powder,
I tinke. Mershan tella mee.

_Mar_. What, maister Doctor Doddie?

_Doct_. Hab you de blew and de yellow Velvet, ha?

_Mar_. What of that, sir?

_Doct_. Be gar, me buy too, three peece for make de Cockes-combe pur the
foole Earle, ha, ha, ha! [_Exit_.

_Mer_. Fortune fights lowe when such triumphe on Earles.

[_Exit_.

(SCENE 3.)

_Enter Lassenbergh singing, Lucilia following;
after the song he speakes_.

_Lass_. O wearie of the way and of my life,
Where shall I rest my sorrow-tired[77] limmes!

_Luc_. Rest in my bosome, rest you here, my Lord;
A place securer you can no where finde.

_Lass_. Nor more unfit for my displeased minde.
A heavie slumber calles me to the earth;
Heere will I sleepe, if sleep will harbour heere.

_Luc_. Unhealthful is the melancholic earth:
O let my Lord re