_Pio._ Sir, hereafter You shall, and underneath it put _probatum_: Is your chain right? _Bob._ 'Tis both right and just Sir; For though I am a Steward, I did get it With no mans wrong. _Pio._ You are witty. _Bob._ So, so. Could you not cure one Sir, of being too rash And over-daring? there now's my disease: Fool-hardy as they say, for that in sooth, I am. _Pio._ Most easily. _Bob._ How? _Pio._ To make you drunk, Sir, With small Beer once a day, and beat you twice, Till you be bruis'd all over: if that help not, Knock out your brains. _Bob._ This is strong Physick Signior, And never will agree with my weak body: I find the medicine worse than the malady, And therefore will remain fool-hardy still: You'll come, Sir? _Pio._ As I am a Gentleman. _Bob._ A man o' th' Sword should never break his word. _Pio._ I'll overtake you: I have only, Sir A complimental visitation To offer to a Mistriss lodg'd here by. _Bob._ A Gentlewoman? _Pio._ Yes Sir. _Bob._ Fair, and comely? _Pio._ Oh Sir, the Paragon, the Non-paril Of _Sevil_, the most wealthy Mine of _Spain_, For beauty, and perfection. _Bob._ Say you so? Might not a man entreat a c[u]rtesie, To walk along with you Signior, to peruse This dainty Mine, though not to dig in't Signior? Hauh--I hope you'll not denie me, being a stranger; Though I am a Steward, I am flesh and blood, And frail as other men. _Pio._ Sir, blow your nose: I dare not for the world: no, she is kept By a great Don, _Vitelli_. _Bob._ How? _Pio._ 'Tis true. _Bob._ See, things will veer about: this Don _Vitelli_ Am I to seek now, to deliver Letters From my young Mistriss _Clara_: and I tell you, Under the Rose, because you are a stranger, And my special friend, I doubt there is A little foolish love betwixt the parties, Unknown unto my Lord. _Pio._ Happy discovery: My fruit begins to ripen: hark you Sir, I would not wish you now, to give those Letters: But home, and ope this to _Madona Clara_, Which when I come I'll justifie, and relate More amply, and particularly. _Bob._ I approve Your counsel, and will practise it: _bazilos manos_: Here's two chewres chewr'd: when wisdom is imploy'd 'Tis ever thus: your more acquaintance, Signior: I say not better, least you think, I thought not Yours good enough. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Alguazier. _Pio._ Your servant excellent Steward. Would all the Dons in _Spain_ had no more brains, Here comes the _Alguazier: dieu vous guard Monsieur_. Is my Cuz stirring yet?