Sinopsis

Enter Rutilio, and Arnold[o]. _Rut._ Why do you grieve thus still? _Arn._ 'Twould melt a Marble, And tame a Savage man, to feel my fortune. _Rut._ What fortune? I have liv'd this thirty years, And run through all these follies you call fortunes, Yet never fixt on any good and constant, But what I made myself: why should I grieve then At that I may mould any way? _Arn._ You are wide still. _Rut._ You love a Gentlewoman, a young handsom woman, I have lov'd a thosand, not so few. _Arn._ You are dispos'd. _Rut._ You hope to Marry her; 'tis a lawful calling And prettily esteem'd of, but take heed then, Take heed dear Brother of a stranger fortune Than e're you felt yet; fortune my foe is a friend to it. _Arn._ 'Tis true I love, dearly, and truly love, A noble, vertuous, and most beauteous Maid, And am belov'd again. _Rut._ That's too much o' Conscience, To love all these would run me out o' my wits. _Arn._ Prethee give ear, I am to Marry her.