_Otho_. You will but vexe me.
_Con_. So his melancholly
Doth make him froward with his dearest friend.
_Enter Julia with the pomegranate_.
Tis well done, _Julia_, quickely cut it up;
And bring a cup of wine, or let me doo't.
_Otho_. I see I shall be plagu'd with mine owne wit;
Being asham'd to speake, I writ my minde.--
Were you my friends, you would not martyr me
With needlesse phisicke; fie upon this trash,
The very sight is loathsome.
_Con_. Take it up:
But let me see, what letter's that that dropt?
Came it from you, or from the _Spanish_ fruit?
_Ju_. Tis all the graines that the pomegranate had.
_Con_. Then theres some trechery within these graines:
Ile breake it up.
And tis directed to my _Euphrata_.
_Euph_. What may the tenure be? I pray thee read it.
[_He opens the letter & reads_.
_Otho_. O fall upon me some wind-shaken turret
To hide me from the anger of my friend,
O from his frowne! because he is my friend.
Were he an enemie, I would be bold;
But kindnes makes this wound. O, this horror!
The words of friends, are stronger then their power.
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