_Leo._ Ye have pull'd a charge upon ye, Yet such a one as ever shall be thankful. _Phil._ Ye have said enough, may I be bold to ask ye, What Province you were bred in? and of what Parents? _Leo._ Ye may Sir: I was born in _Andaluzia_, My name _Francisc[o]_, son to Don _Henriques_ _De Cardinas_. _Theo._ Our noble neighbor. _Phil._ Son to Don _Henriques_? I know the Gentleman: and by your leave Sir, I know he has no son. _Leo._ None of his own Sir, Which makes him put that right upon his Brother Don _Zanchio_'s child[ren]: one of which I am, And therefore do not much err. _Phil._ Still ye do Sir, For neither has Don _Zanchio_ any son; A Daughter, and a rare one is his heir, Which though I [n]ever was so blest to see, Yet I have heard great good of. _Theo._ Urge no further, He is ashamed, and blushes. _Phil._ Sir, If it might import you to conceal your self, I ask your mercy, I have been so curious: _Leo._ Alas! I must ask yours Sir: for these lies, Yet they were useful ones; for by the claiming Such noble parents, I believ'd your bounties Would shew more gracious: The plain truth is Gentlemen, I am Don _Zanchio_'s Stewards son, a wild boy, That for the fruits of his unhappiness, Is faign to seek the wars. _Theo._ This is a lie too. If I have any ears. _Phil._ Why? _Theo._ Mark his language, And ye shall find it of too sweet a relish For one of such a breed: I'll pawn my hand, This is no boy. _Phil._ No boy? what would you have him? _Theo._ I know, no boy: I watcht how fearfully, And yet how suddainly he cur'd his lies, The right wit of a Woman: Now I am sure. _Phil._ What are ye sure? _Theo._ That 'tis no boy: I'll burn in't. _Phil._ Now I consider better, and take council, Methinks he shows more sweetness in that face, Than his fears dare deliver. _Theo._ No more talk on't, There hangs some great weight by it: soon at night I'll tell ye more. _Phil._ Come Sir, what e'r you are With us, embrace your liberty, and our helps In any need you have. _Leo._ All my poor service Shall be at your command Sir, and my prayers. _Phil._ Let's walk apace; hunger will cut their throats else. [_Exeunt._ _Scæna Tertia._ _Enter_ Rodorigo, Mark-antonio, _and a Ship-master,_ _two Chairs set out._ _Rod._ Call up the Master. _Mast._ Here Sir. _Rod._ Honest Master, Give order all the Gallies with this tyde Fall round, and near upon us; that the next wind We may weigh off together, and recover The Port of _Bar[c]elona_, without parting. _Mast._ Your pleasure's done Sir. [_Ex._