_Val._ O my dearest, Let but your goodness judge; your own part's pity; Set but your eyes on his afflictions; He is mine, and so becomes your charge: but think What ruine Nature suffers in this young man, What loss humanity, and noble manhood; Take to your better judgment my declining, My Age hung full of impotence, and ills, My Body budding now no more: seer Winter Hath seal'd that sap up, at the best and happiest I can but be your infant, you my Nurse, And how unequal dearest; where his years, His sweetness, and his ever spring of goodness, My fortunes growing in him, and my self too, Which makes him all your old love; misconceive not, I say not this as weary of my bondage, Or ready to infringe my faith; bear witness, Those eyes that I adore still, those lamps that light me To all the joy I have. _Cel._ You have said enough, Sir, And more than e'r I thought that tongue could utter, But you are a man, a false man too. _Val._ Dear _Cellide_. _Cel._ And now, to shew you that I am a woman Rob'd of her rest, and fool'd out of her fondness, The Gentleman shall live, and if he love me, Ye shall be both my triumphs; I will to him, And as you carelessly fling off your fortune, And now grow weary of my easie winning, So will I lose the name of _Valentine_, From henceforth all his flatteries, and believe it, Since ye have so slightly parted with affection, And that affection you have pawn'd your faith for; From this hour no repentance, vows, nor prayers Shall pluck me back again; what I shall do, Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it, Shall minister no comfort, no content To either of ye, but hourly more vexations. _Val._ Why, let him dye then. _Cel._ No, so much I have loved To be commanded by you, that even now, Even in my hate, I will obey your wishes. _Val._ What shall I do? _Cel._ Dye like a fool unsorrow'd, A bankrupt fool, that flings away his Treasure; I must begin my cure. _Val._ And I my Crosses. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Frank _sick_, _Physicians_, _and an Apothecary_. _1 Phy._ Clap on the Cataplasm. _Frank._ Good Gentlemen, Good learned Gentlemen. _2 Phy._ And see these broths there, Ready within this hour, pray keep your arms in, The air is raw, and ministers much evil. _Fran._ 'Pray leave me; I beseech ye leave me, Gentlemen, I have no other sickness but your presence, Convey your Cataplasms to those that need 'em, Your Vomits, and your Clysters. _3 Phy._ Pray be rul'd, Sir. _1 Phy._ Bring in the Lettice Cap; you must be shaved, Sir, And then how suddenly we'll make you sleep! _Frank._ Till dooms-day: what unnecessary nothings Are these about a wounded mind? _2 Phy._ How do ye?