Lucio.
Good even;—
Friar, where's the Provost?

Duke.

Not within, Sir.

Lucio.

Oh, pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart, to see thine eyes so red; thou must be patient; I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly: one fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I lov'd thy brother: if the old^{6 note} fantastical Duke of dark corners had been at home, he had liv'd.

Duke.

Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholden to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.

Lucio.

Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do; he's a better woodman,^{7 note} than thou tak'st him for.

Duke.

Well; you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well.

Lucio.

Nay, tarry, I'll go along with thee: I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke.

Duke.

You have told me too many of him already, Sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough.

Lucio.

I was once before him for getting a wench with child.

Duke.

Did you such a thing?

Lucio.

Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it; they would else have marry'd me to the rotten medlar.

Duke.

Sir, your company is fairer than honest: rest you well.

Lucio.

By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, Friar, I am a kind of bur, I shall stick.