_Ped._ He might have cozen'd me with his behaviour. _Mast._ Many have sworn him right, and I have thought so: Yet on a sudden, from some word, or other, When no man could expect a fit, he has flown out: I dare not give him will. _Enter_ Alinda. _Ped._ Pray Heaven recover him. _Alin._ Must I come in too? _Mast._ No, my pretty Lad; Keep in thy Chamber Boy; 'shalt have thy supper. _Ped._ I pray ye what is he, Sir? _Mast._ A strange Boy, that last night Was found i'th' Town, a little craz'd, distracted, And so sent hither. _Ped._ How the pretty Knave looks, And plays, and peeps upon me! sure such eyes I have seen, and lov'd: what fair hands! certainly-- _Mast._ Good Sir, you'l make him worse. _Ped._ I pray believe not. Alas, why sho[u]ld I hurt him? how he smiles! The very shape, and sweetness of _Alinda_: Let me look once again: were it in such clothes As when I saw her last; this must be she. How tenderly it stroaks me! _Mast._ Pray ye be mild Sir; I must attend elsewhere. [_Exit._ _Ped._ Pray ye be secure Sir, What would ye say? how my heart beats and trembles! He holds me hard by th' hand; O my life, her flesh too! I know not what to think: her tears, her true ones; Pure orient tears: Hark, do you know me little one? _Alin._ O _Pedro Pedro_! _Ped._ O my soul! _Gent._ What fit's this? The Pilgrim's off the hooks too. _Alin._ Let me hold thee, And now come all the world, and all that hate me. _Ped._ Be wise, and not discovered: O how I love ye! How do ye now? _Alin._ I have been miserable; But your most vertuous eyes have cur'd me, _Pedro_: Pray ye think it no immodesty, I kiss ye, My head's wild still. _Ped._ Be not so full of passion, Nor do not hang so greedily upon me; 'Twill be ill taken. _Alin._ Are ye weary of me? I will hang here eternally, kiss ever, And weep away for joy. _Enter Master._ _Master._ I told ye Sir, What ye would do: for shame do not afflict him; You have drawn his fit upon him fearfully: Either depart, and presently; I'le force ye else. Who waits within? _Enter two Keepers to fetch 'em off._ _Ped._ Alas good Sir. This is the way never to hope recovery. _Mast._ Stay but one minute more, I'le complain to the Governour, Bring in the boy: do you see how he swells, and tears himself? Is this your cure? Be gone; if the boy miscarry Let me ne'r find you more, for I'le so hamper ye-- _Gent._ You were to blame: too rash. _Ped._ Farewel for ever. [_Exeunt._ _Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._ _Enter_ Alphonso, _Gent._ Juletta.