Enter Duke of Florence, Prince of Pifa, Nicoletto.
Vanni, Trebatio his fonne, Mutio, Philippo, Tor-
nelli, Gallants, Tibaldo Neri, Alphonfina his fifler,
Dariene Old Vannies wife, Cargo a ferving-man.

Ee furfit heere on Pleafures: Seas nor Land
Cannot invite us to a Feaft more glorious,
Then this day we have fat at my Lord
Vanni,

You have an excellent feate heere; Tis a building
May entertaine a Cafar: but you and I

Should rather talke of Tombs, then Pallaces,

Let's leave all to our heires, for we are old.

Nico. Old! hem? all heart of braffe, found as a

bell,

Old why, Ile tell your Graces; I have gone
But halfe the bridge ore yet; there lies before me
As much as I have paff'd, and I'le goe it all.
Flo. Mad Vanni still.

Nic. Old Oakes doe not easily fall:

Decembers cold hand combes my head and beard,
But May swimmes in my blood, and he that walkes
Without his wooden third legge, is never old.
Pija. What is your age my Lord?

Nic. Age, what call you age?

I have liv'd some halfe a day, fome halfe an houre.
Flo. A tree of threefcore-yeares growth, nothing?
Tib. A meere flip, you have kept good diet my
lord.

Nic. Let whores keepe diet,

Tibaldo ner'e; never did Rivers runn

In wilder, madder streames, then I have done,
I'le drinke as hard yet as an Englishman.

Flo. And they are now best Drinkers.

Pifa. They put downe the Dutch-men cleane.
Nic. Ile yet upon a wager hit any fencers button.
Car. Some of 'em ha' no buttons to their doublets
Sir.

Nic. Then knave, Ile hit his flesh, and hit your cockscombe,

If you croffe mine once more.

Flo. Nay be not angry.

Nic. I have my Paffees Sir: and my Paffadoes, My Longes, my Stockadoes, Imbrocadoes,

And all my Pimtoes, and Pimtillioes,

Here at my fingers end.

Flo. By my faith 'tis well.

Nic. Old? why I ne're tooke Phisicke, nor ever

will,

I'le truft none that have Art, and leave to kill:
Now for that chopping herbe of hell Tobacco;
The idle-mans-Devill, and the Drunkards-whore,
I never medled with her; my fmoake goes,
Out at my kitchin chimney, not my nose.

Flo. And fome Lords have no chimnies but their nofes.

Nic. Tobacco-shopps fhew like prisons in hell; Hote, fmoaky, ftinking, and I hate the smell.

Pif. Who'd thinke that in a coale fo Afhy white, Such fire were glowing?

Flo. May not a fnuffe give light?

Tib. You fee it doe's in him.

Alph. A withered-tree, doth oft beare branches. Nic. What thinke you then of me-sweete Lady? Alph. Troth my Lord as of a horse, vilely, if he

can

Neither wihy, nor wagge-Taile.

Flo. The Lady Alphonfina Neri, has given it you my Lord.

Nic. The time may come I may give it her too. Flo. I doubt Lord Vanni, fhe will cracke no Nutts, With fuch a tough fhell, as is yours and mine. But leaving this, lets fee you pray at Court. Nico. I thanke your grace.

Flo. Your wife, and your faire daughter, One of the stars of Florence, with your fonne, Heire to your worth and Honours, Trebatio Vanni. Treb. I fhall attend your grace.

Flo. The holy knot,

Hymen fhall fhortly tie, and in faire bands,

Vnite Florence and Pifa by the hands,

Of Fyametta and this Pifan Duke

(Our Noble-fon in law) and at this daie, Pray be not absent.

Nic. We fhall your will obey.

Flo. We heare there is a gallant that out-vies

Vs, and our court for bravery, of expence,

For royall feafts, triumphs, and revellings.

Nic. He's my neere kinsman, mine owne brothers fon,

Who desperately a prodigall race doth runne,
And for this riotous humour, he has the by-name,
Signior Torrenti, a swift Head-long streame.

Flo. But ther's another layes on more then he.
Nic. Old Iacomo? open-handed charitie,
Sit's ever at his gates to welcome guests.

He makes no bone-fires, as my riotous kinsman,
And yet his chimneis caft out braver smoake.
The Bellows which he blowes with, are good deeds,
The rich he smiles upon, the poore he feeds.

Flo. Thefe gallants we'le be feafted by, and Feast ;
Fames praises of 'em, fhall make us their gueft,
Meane time we'le hence.

Exit Florence, Pifa, &c.

Enter Cargo.

Car. I have News to tell your Lordship, Signior Angelo (of the Lotti Family) is banished.

Dari. How banish't? alas poore Angelo Lotti.
Treb. Why must he goe from Florence?

Cargo. Because he can stay there no longer.

Nic. To what end is he driven from the Citie? Cargo. To the end he should goe into fome other my Lord.

Car. I hope this is newes Sir.

Nic. What fpeake the people of him?

Car. As bells ring; fome out, fome in, all jangle, they say he has dealt with the Genoway against the ftate: but whether with the men, or the women; tis to be stood upon.

Nic.

Away Sir knave and foole.

Car. Sir knave, a new word: fooles, and knaves Sir?

Exit.

Nic. This muttering long agoe flew to mine eare, The Genoway is but a line throwne out,

But Fiametta's love, the net that choakes him.

Tre. He's worthy of her equall.

At these state bone-fires (whose flames reach fo high) To ftand aloofe, is fafer then too nigh.

Exit.

Enter Tibaldo Neri, and Alphonfina.

Alp. Why brother, what's the matter?
Tib. I'me ill, exceeding ill.

Alp. That's not well.

Tib. Sure I did furfet at Lord Vannies.

Alp. Surfet you eate fome Meate against your ftomack.

Tib. No, but I had a stomack to one dish, and the not tasting it, makes me fick at heart.

Alp. Was it fish or flesh?

Tib.

Flesh fure, if I hit the marke right.

Alp. I'ft not the mifsing of a marke (which you long to hit)

Makes you draw fighes in ftead of arrowes?

Tib. Would I had beene a thousand leagues from thence,

When I fat downe at's table, or bin partner
With Angelo Lotti in his banishment;
Oh! fifter Alphonfina, there I dranke

My bane, the strongest poifon that e're man

Drew from a Ladies eye, now fwelling in me.

Alp. By cafting of thy water then, I gueffe thou would'st

Have a medcine for the greene-ficknes.

Tib. 'Tis a greene wound indeed.

Alp. Tent it, tent it, and keepe it from ranckling, you are

Over head and eares in love.

Tib. I am, and with fuch mortall Arrowes pierc't I fhall fall downe

Alp. There's no hurt in that

Tib. And dye unleffe her pitty

Send me a quicke and fweete recovery.

Alp. And faith what doctresse is she must call you patient?

Tib. Faire Dariene, the Lord Vannies wife

Alp. How! Dariene? can no feather fit you but

the broach in an