_Alph._ No, no Sir, I am none of these _Come in Sirs_, None of those visitants: bid your wise Master Come out, I have to talk unto him: go Sir. _2 Ser._ Your worship may be welcome. _Alph._ Sir, I will not, I come not to be welcome: good my three Duckets, My pickell'd sprat a day, and no oil to't, And once a year a cotten coat, leave prating And tell your Master I am here. _2 Ser._ I will Sir. This is a strange old man. [_Exit._ _Alph._ I welcome to him? I'll be first welcome to a Pesthouse: Sirrah Let's have your valour now cas'd up, and quiet When an occasion calls, 'tis wisdom in ye, A Servingman's discretion: if you do draw, _Enter_ Leonardo, _and Don_ Zanchio _(carried by two Servants in a chair.)_ Draw but according to your entertainment; Five Nobles worth of fury. _Leo._ Signior _Alphonso_, I hope no discontent from my Will given, Has made ye shun my house: [I ever lov'd ye.] An credit me amongst my fears 'tis greatest To minister offences. _Alph._ O good Signior I know ye for _Italian_ breed, fair tongu'd, Spare your Apologies, I care not for 'em, As little for your love Sir; I can live Without your knowledge, eat mine own, and sleep Without dependences, or hopes upon ye. I come to ask my Daughter. _Leo._ Gentle Sir. _Alph._ I am not gentle Sir, nor gentle will be Till I have justice, my poor child restor'd Your caper-cutting boy has run away with. Young Signior smooth-face, he that takes up wenches With smiles, and sweet behaviors, Songs, and Sonnets, Your high fed Jennet, that no hedge can hold They say you bred him for a Stallion. _Zanch._ Fie Signior, there be times, and terms of honor To argue these things in, descidements able To speak ye noble Gentlemen, ways punctual And to the life of credit, ye are too rugged. _Alph._ I am too tame Sir. _Leo._ Will ye hear but reason? _Alph._ No, I will hear no reason: I come not hither To be popt off with reason; reason then. _Zanch._ Why Signior, in all things there must be method, Ye choak the child of honor else, discretion, Do you conceive an injury? _Alph._ What then Sir? _Zanch._ Then follow it in fair terms, let your sword bite When time calls, not your tongue. _Alph._ I know Sir Both when and what to do without directions, And where, and how, I come not to be tutor'd, My cause is no mans but mine own: you Signior, Will ye restore my Daughter? _Leo._ Who detains her? _Alph._ No more of these slight shifts. _Leo._ Ye urge me Signior With strange injustice: because my Son has err'd-- _Zanch._ Mark him. _Leo._ Out of the heat of youth: dos't follow I must be father of his crimes?