+Lio.+ Take him to your house, There keep him privately, till I make all perfect. If ever alchemist did more rejoice In his projection, never credit me. +Lor.+ You shall prevail upon my faith beyond My understanding: and, my dapper squire, If you be such a precious wag, I'll cherish you. Come, walk along with me. Farewell, sir. +Lio.+ Adieu. [_Exeunt +Lorenzo+ and +Angelia+._ Now I must travel on a new exploit To an old antiquary; he is my uncle, And I his heir. Would I could raise a fortune Out of his ruins! He is grown obsolete, And 'tis time he were out of date. They say he sits All day in contemplation of a statue With ne'er a nose, and doats on the decays With greater love than the self-lov'd Narcissus Did on his beauty. How shall I approach him? Could I appear but like a Sibyl's son, Or with a face rugged as father Nilus Is pictured on the hangings, there were hope He might look on me. How to win his love I know not. If I wist he were not precise, I'd lay to purchase some stale interludes, And give him them; books that have not attain'd To the Platonic year, but wait their course And happy hour, to be reviv'd again: Then would I induce him to believe they were Some of Terence's hundred and fifty comedies, That were lost in the Adriatic sea, When he return'd from banishment. Some such Gullery as this might be enforced upon him. I'll first talk with his man, and then consider. [_Exit._ _Enter +Lorenzo+, +Gasparo+, +Mocinigo+, and +Angelia+._ +Lor.+ How happ'd you did return again so soon, sir? +Gas.+ I'll tell you, sir. As I follow'd my son From the Rialto, near unto the bridge, We were encounter'd by a sort[306] of gallants, Sons of clarissimos and procurators, That knew him in his travels: whereupon He did insinuate with his eyes unto me, I should depart and leave them. +Lor.+ Seems he was asham'd of your company? +Gas.+ Like will to like, sir. +Lor.+ What grave and youthful gentleman's that with you? +Gas.+ Do you not know him? +Lor.+ No. +Gas.+ Not Signior Mocinigo? +Lor.+ You jest, I am sure. +Gas.+ Ay, and there hangs a jest: For, going to a courtesan this morning In his own proper colour, his grey beard, He had the ill-luck to be refus'd; on which He went and dy'd it, and came back again; And was again with the same scorn rejected, Telling him that she had newly deni'd his father. +Lor.+ Was that her answer? +Gas.+ It has so troubled him, That he intends to marry. What think you, sir, Of his resolution? +Lor.+ By'r Lady, it shows Great haughtiness of courage; a man of his years, That dares to venture on a wife.