_What thing is love? for sure I am it is a thing, It is a prick, it is a thing, it is a prettie, prettie thing; It is a fire, it is a cole, whose flame creeps in at every hoale; And as my wits do best devise Loves dwelling is in Ladies eies_. _Haunce_. O rare wench! _Cor_. Faire Prince, thy picture is not here imprest With such perfection as within my brest. _Mar_. Soft, maister Doctor. _Doct_. _Cornelia_, by garr dis paltry marshan be too bolde, is too sawcie by garr. Foole, holde off hand, foole; let de Doctor speake. _Han_. Now my brave wooers, how they strive for a Jewes Trump. _Doct_. Madam, me love you; me desire to marry you. Me pray you not to say no. _Cor_. Maister Doctor, I think you do not love me; I am sure you shall not marry me, And (in good sadnes) I must needs say no. _Mar_. What say you to this, maister Doctor. Mistresse, let me speake. That I do love you I dare not say, least I should offend you; that I would marry you I had rather you should conceive then I should utter: and I do live or die upon your _Monasi[la]ble_, I or no. _Doct_. By gar if you will see de _Marshan_ hang himselfe, say no: a good shasse by garr. _Han_. A filthy French jest as I am a Dutch gentleman. _Mar_. Mistresse, Ile bring you from _Arabia_, _Turckie_, and _India_, where the Sunne doth rise, Miraculous Jemmes, rare stuffes of pretious worke, To beautifie you more then all the paintings Of women with their coullour-fading cheekes. _Doct_. You bring stuffe for her? you bring pudding. Me vit one, two, tree pence more den de price buy it from dee and her too by garr: by garr dow sella' dy fader for two pence more. Madam, me gieve you restoratife; me give you tings (but toush you) make you faire; me gieve you tings make you strong; me make you live six, seaven, tree hundra yeere: you no point so, Marshan. Marshan run from you two, tree, foure yere together: who shall kisse you dan? Who shall embrace you dan? Who shall toush your fine hand? ô shall, ô sweete, by garr. _Mar_. Indeed, M. Doctor, your commodities are rare; a guard of Urinals in the morning; a plaguie fellow at midnight; a fustie Potticarie ever at hand with his fustian drugges, attending your pispot worship. _Doct_. By garr, skurvy marshan, me beat dee starck dead, and make dee live againe for sav'a de law. _Han_. A plaguie marshan by gar, make the doctor angre. _Doct_. Now, madam, by my trot you be very faire. _Cor_. You mock me, M. Doct, I know the contrary. _Doct_. Know? what you know? You no see your selfe, by garr me see you; me speake vatt me see; you no point speake so: _Han_. Peace, Doctor, I vise you. Do not court in my maisters hearing, you were best. _Enter Flores_.