_Otho_.--And what a slave am I to wrong this friend!
_Enter Constantine and Julia_.
_Con_. Where is he?
_Ju_. Here.
_Con_. The welcom'st man alive.
Unkind, how couldst thou stay from me so long?
_Otho_. I have bin ill at ease, pray pardon me;
But I rejoyce to see my friend so well.
_Euph_. Some Ladies love hath made him melancholy.
_Otho_. Shee hath read the letter that I lately sent her
In a pomegranat, by those words I hope.
_Con_. Why speake you not? is't love or melancholy?
_Otho_. If upon love my grief is melancholy?
_Con_. Ile have the best Phisitians here in _Meath_
Assay by art to cure that maladie.
_Euph_. Gainst mellancholy minds your onely Phisick
Our Saxon doctors hold that principle.
Now I remember you did lately send me
A choice pomegranate; fetch it, _Julia_.
Some of those graines well stir'd in _Gascoine_ wine
Is present remedie.
_Otho_. Madam, Ile none:
Of all fruits, that I hate.
_Euph_. And commended it
So highly by the messenger that brought it!
_Con_. Twas well remembred, you shall take a graine.
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