+Cle.+ My heart! How sick am I o' th' sudden! Good my lord, Call your dwarf hither. +San.+ Garragantua! boy. _Enter +Browfildora+._ +Cle.+ Prythee, thy pedigree? +San.+ Madam, what mean you? +Cle.+ O, anything, but to divert from love: Another word of courtship, and I swoon. +Brow.+ My ancestors were giants, madam; giants, Pure Spanish, who disdain'd to mingle with The blood of Goth or Moor. Their mighty actions, In a small letter, nature printed on Your little servant. +Cle.+ How so very little? +Brow.+ By the decay of time, and being forc'd From fertile pastures to the barren hills Of Biscay: even in trees you may observe The wonder which, transplanted to a soil Less happy, lose in growth. Is not the once Huge body of the Roman empire now A very pigmy? +Cle.+ But why change you not That so gigantic name of Browfildora? +Brow.+ Spite of malignant nature, I'll preserve The memory of my forefathers: they shall live In me contracted. +San.+ Madam, let's return To the love we last discours'd on. +Cle.+ This, my lord, Is much more serious. What coarse thing is that? _Enter +Oniate+ and +Floriana+._ +Flo.+ I owe you, sir, for the pleasure of this walk. +Oni.+ Madam, it was to me the highest honour. [_Exit +Oniate+._ +Cle.+ Welcome, O, welcome, to redeem me!--What Can the best wit of woman fancy we Have been discoursing of? +Flo.+ Sure, not of love? +Cle.+ Of that most ridiculous hobby-horse, love; That fool that fools the world; that spaniel love, That fawns [the more] the more 'tis kick'd! +San.+ Will you betray me? +Cle.+ Thy lord hath so protested, Floriana, Vowed such an altar to my beauty, swore So many oaths, and such profane oaths too, To be religious in performing all That's impious towards heaven, and to a lady Most ruinous. +Flo.+ Good Cleantha, all your detraction Wins no belief on my suspicion. +Cle.+ Be credulous, and be abus'd. Floriana, There's no vice so great as to think him virtuous. Go mount your milk-white steed, Sir Lancelot, Your little squire attends you there: in suburbs Enchanted castles are, where ladies wait To be deliver'd by your mighty hand; Go and protest there. +San.+ I thank your favour, madam. [_Exit +Sanmartino+._ +Cle.+ It is not so much worth, sir. Come, we'll follow. +Flo.+ But stay, Cleantha. Prythee, what begot That squeamish look, that scornful wry o' the mouth, When Oniate parted? +Cle.+ Why, thou hadst So strange a fellow in thy company, His garb was so uncourtly, I grew sick. +Flo.+ He is a gentleman; and, add to that, Makes good the title. +Cle.+ Haply he may so, And haply he's enamour'd on thy beauty. +Flo.+ On mine, Cleantha?