_Pen._ She is mad with Love, As mad as ever unworm'd dog was, Signior, And does so weep, and curse, for your prevention, Your crosses in your love; it frets me too, I am fall'n away to nothing, to a spindle, Grown a meer man of mat, no soul within me, Pox o' my Master, Sir, will that content ye? _Cla._ This rogue but cozens me, and she neglects me, Upon my life there are some other gamesters, Nearer the wind than I, and that prevents me, Is there no other holds acquaintance with her? Prethee be true, be honest, do not mock me, Thou knowest her heart, no former interest She has vow'd a favour too? and cannot handsomely Go off, but by regaining such a friendship? There are a thousand handsome men, young, wealthy, That will not stick at any rate, nor danger, To gain so sweet a prize; nor can I blame her, If where she finds a comfort, she deal cunningly, I am a stranger yet. _Pen._ Ye are all she looks for, And if there be any other, she neglects all, And all for you: I would you saw how grievously And with what hourly lamentations. _Cla._ I know thou flatter'st me; tell me but truth, Look here, look well, the best meat in the Dukedom, The rarest, and the choicest of all Diets, Th[is] will I give thee, but to satisfie me; That is, not to dissemble; this rare Lobster, This Pheasant of the Sea, this dish for Princes, And all this thou shalt enjoy, eat all thy self, Have good _Greek_ Wine, or any thing belongs to it, A wench, if it desire one. _Pen._ All this, Signior? _Cla._ All, and a greater far than this. _Pen._ A greater? _Cla._ If thou deserve by telling truth. _Pen._ A wench too? _Cla._ Or any thing, but if you play the knave now, The cozening knave, besides the loss of this, In which thou hast parted with a paradise, I ne'er will give thee meat more, not a morsel, No smell of meat by my means shall come near thee, Nor name of any thing that's nourishing, But to thy old part _Tantalus_ again, Thou shalt return, and there snap at a shadow. _Pen._ Upon this point, had I intended Treason, Or any thing might call my life in question, Follow'd with all the tortures time could think on, Give me but time to eat this lovely Lobster, This Alderman o'th' Sea, and give me Wine to him, I would reveal all, and if that all were too little, More than I knew; _Bartello_ holds in with her, The Captain of the Cittadel, but you need not fear him, His tongue's the stiffest weapon that he carries. He is old, and out of use; there are some other, Men, young enough, handsome, and bold enough, Could they come but to make their game once, but they want Sir, They want the _unde quare_, they are laid by then. _Enter_ Bartello. You only are the man shall knock the nail in--