SER. I pray you, sir, is this Pazzi house? LOR. SE. Yes, marry is it, sir. SER. I should enquire for a gentleman here, one Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi; do you know any such, sir, I pray you? LOR. SE. Yes, sir; or else I should forget myself. SER. I cry you mercy, sir, I was requested by a gentleman of Florence (having some occasion to ride this way) to deliver you this letter. LOR. SE. To me, sir? What do you mean? I pray you remember your court'sy. "To his dear and most selected friend, Signior Lorenzo di Pazzi." What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it? Nay, pray you be covered. SER. Signior Prospero. LOR. SE. Signior Prospero? A young gentleman of the family of Strozzi, is he not? SER. Ay, sir, the same: Signior Thorello, the rich Florentine merchant married his sister. [ENTER MUSCO.] LOR. SE. You say very true. -- Musco. MUS. Sir. LOR. SE. Make this gentleman drink here. I pray you go in, sir, an't please you. [EXEUNT.] Now (without doubt) this letter's to my son. Well, all is one: I'll be so bold as read it, Be it but for the style's sake, and the phrase; Both which (I do presume) are excellent, And greatly varied from the vulgar form, If Prospero's invention gave them life. How now! what stuff is here? "Sir Lorenzo, I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt, Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comest not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and at length been glad for a shift (though no clean shift) to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles' wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quis contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me; but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute true Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come. 'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other, to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast been father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And then, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool- gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better. Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thy Father should see this now? what would he think of me? Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him. Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth