CLEM. Of me, knave? peace of me, knave? did I e'er hurt thee? did Iever threaten thee? or wrong thee? ha?
COB. No, God's my comfort, I mean your worship's warrant, for one that hath wrong'd me, sir: his arms are at too much liberty, I would fain have them bound to a treaty of peace, an I could by any means compass it.
LOR. Why, dost thou go in danger of thy life for him?
COB. No, sir; but I go in danger of my death every hour by his means; an Idie within a twelve-month and a day, I may swear, by the laws of the land, that he kill'd me.
CLEM. How? how, knave? swear he kill'd thee? what pretext? what colour hast thou for that?
COB. Marry, sir, both black and blue, colour enough, I warrant you, I have it here to shew your worship.
CLEM. What is he that gave you this, sirrah?
COB. A gentleman in the city, sir.
CLEM. A gentleman? what call you him?
COB. Signior Bobadilla.
CLEM. Good: But wherefore did he beat you, sirrah? how began the quarrel 'twixt you? ha: speak truly, knave, I advise you.
COB. Marry, sir, because I spake against their vagrant tobacco, as I came by them: for nothing else.
CLEM. Ha, you speak against tobacco? Peto, his name.
PET. What's your name, sirrah?
COB. Oliver Cob, sir, set Oliver Cob, sir.
CLEM. Tell Oliver Cob he shall go to the jail.
PET. Oliver Cob, master Doctor says you shall go to the jail.
COB. Oh, I beseech your worship, for God's love, dear master Doctor.
CLEM. Nay, God's precious! an such drunken knaves as you are come to dispute of tobacco once, I have done: away with him.
COB. Oh, good master Doctor, sweet gentleman.
LOR. SE. Sweet Oliver, would I could do thee any good; master Doctor, let me intreat, sir.
CLEM. What? a tankard-bearer, a thread-bare rascal, a beggar, a slave that never drunk out of better than piss-pot metal in his life, and he to deprave and abuse the virtue of an herb so generally received in the courts of princes, the chambers of nobles, the bowers of sweet ladies, the cabins of soldiers: Peto, away with him, by God's passion, I say, go to.
COB. Dear master Doctor.
LOR. SE. Alas, poor Oliver.
CLEM. Peto: ay: and make him a warrant, he shall not go, I but fear the knave.
COB. O divine Doctor, thanks, noble Doctor, most dainty Doctor, delicious Doctor.
[EXEUNT PETO WITH DOB.
CLEM. Signior Lorenzo: God's pity, man, Be merry, be merry, leave these dumps.
LOR. SE. Troth, would I could, sir: but enforced mirth (In my weak judgment) has no happy birth.
The mind, being once a prisoner unto cares, The more it dreams on joy, the worse it fares.
A smiling look is to a heavy soul As a gilt bias to a leaden bowl, Which (in itself) appears most vile, being spent To no true use; but only for ostent.
CLEM. Nay, but, good Signior, hear me a word, hear me a word, your cares are nothing; they are like my cap, soon put on, and as soon put off. What? your son is old enough to govern himself; let him run his course, it's the only way to make him a staid man: if he were an unthrift, a ruffian, a drunkard, or a licentious liver, then you had reason: you had reason to take care: but being none of these, God's passion, an I had twice so many cares as you have, I'd drown them all in a cup of sack: come, come, I must your parcel of a soldier returns not all this while.
