Luc. I do not bid thee begge my life, good Lad,
And yet I know thou wilt
Imo. No, no, alacke,
There's other worke in hand: I see a thing
Bitter to me, as death: your life, good Master,
Must shuffle for it selfe
Luc. The Boy disdaines me,
He leaues me, scornes me: briefely dye their ioyes,
That place them on the truth of Gyrles, and Boyes.
Why stands he so perplext?
Cym. What would'st thou Boy?
I loue thee more, and more: thinke more and more
What's best to aske. Know'st him thou look'st on? speak
Wilt haue him liue? Is he thy Kin? thy Friend?
Imo. He is a Romane, no more kin to me,
Then I to your Highnesse, who being born your vassaile
Am something neerer
Cym. Wherefore ey'st him so?
Imo. Ile tell you (Sir) in priuate, if you please
To giue me hearing
Cym. I, with all my heart,
And lend my best attention. What's thy name?
Imo. Fidele Sir
Cym. Thou'rt my good youth: my Page
Ile be thy Master: walke with me: speake freely
Bel. Is not this Boy reuiu'd from death?
Arui. One Sand another
Not more resembles that sweet Rosie Lad:
Who dyed, and was Fidele: what thinke you?
Gui. The same dead thing aliue
Bel. Peace, peace, see further: he eyes vs not, forbeare
Creatures may be alike: were't he, I am sure
He would haue spoke to vs