_Duke_. I have not seene a prettier forme of hand. Daughter, let's see; is't not too bigge for you? _Euph_. Sure 'tis some admirable worke of nature, If it fit any hand that owes[174] this glove, If all the rest doe parallel the hand. _Duke_. Will it not on? _Euph_. Not for a diadem; Ile trie no longer lest I shame my selfe. _Duke_. Try, _Julia_. _Ju_. My hand's bigger then my Ladies. _Duke_. I cannot tell, but in my minde I feele A wondrous passion of I know not what. _Fre_. The imbroidered glove may be some childs, no womans. _Duke_. I should mistrust as much, but that this place Beares greater compasse then a childish hand. I must command it. _Fre_. Willingly, my Lord. _Duke_. Then to the state-house, brothers, leade the way: First our instalement [_sic_], then a funerall day. [_Exeunt Duke and brothers and Fred_. _Enter Otho_. _Otho_. Yonder she goes, the mirrour of her sexe.-- Stay, beauteous _Euphrata_. _Euph. Otho_! what, _Julia_? _Ju_. Here, madam! what's your will? _Euph_. Call _Constantine_; Tell him his deare friend _Otho_ is return'd. _Ju_. I will. _Otho_. Stay, _Julia_. _Euph_. Doe as I bid you, goe. [_Exit Julia_. _Otho_. I had rather have a word or twaine with you. _Euph_. I have heard him oft enquire for thee his friend, I have heard him sigh, I have seene him weepe for thee, Imagining some mischiefe or distresse Had falne thee since the closets separation. _Otho_.--And what a slave am I to wrong this friend! _Enter Constantine and Julia_. _Con_. Where is he? _Ju_. Here. _Con_. The welcom'st man alive. Unkind, how couldst thou stay from me so long? _Otho_. I have bin ill at ease, pray pardon me; But I rejoyce to see my friend so well. _Euph_. Some Ladies love hath made him melancholy. _Otho_. Shee hath read the letter that I lately sent her In a pomegranat, by those words I hope. _Con_. Why speake you not? is't love or melancholy? _Otho_. If upon love my grief is melancholy? _Con_. Ile have the best Phisitians here in _Meath_ Assay by art to cure that maladie. _Euph_. Gainst mellancholy minds your onely Phisick Our Saxon doctors hold that principle. Now I remember you did lately send me A choice pomegranate; fetch it, _Julia_. Some of those graines well stir'd in _Gascoine_ wine Is present remedie. _Otho_. Madam, Ile none: Of all fruits, that I hate. _Euph_. And commended it So highly by the messenger that brought it! _Con_. Twas well remembred, you shall take a graine. _Otho_. You will but vexe me. _Con_. So his melancholly Doth make him froward with his dearest friend. _Enter Julia with the pomegranate_. Tis well done, _Julia_, quickely cut it up; And bring a cup of wine, or let me doo't. _Otho_. I see I shall be plagu'd with mine owne wit; Being asham'd to speake, I writ my minde.-- Were you my friends, you would not martyr me With needlesse phisicke; fie upon this trash, The very sight is loathsome.