_ Prethee dispatch me.
_Elder Lo._ Your Brother's dead Sir.
_Young Lo._ Thou dost not mean dead drunk?
_Elder Lo._ No, no, dead and drown'd at sea Sir.
_Young Lo._ Art sure he's dead?
_Elder Lo._ Too sure Sir.
_Young Lo._ I but art thou very certainly sure of it?
_Elder Lo._ As sure Sir, as I tell it.
_Young Lo._ But art thou sure he came not up again?
_Elder Lo._ He may come up, but ne're to call you Brother.
_Young Lo._ But art sure he had water enough to drown him?
_Elder Lo._ Sure Sir, he wanted none.
_Young Lo._ I would not have him want, I lov'd him better; here I forgive
thee: and i'faith be plain, how do I bear it?
_Elder Lo._ Very wisely Sir.
_Young Lo_. Fill him some wine. Thou dost not see me mov'd, these
transitorie toyes ne're trouble me, he's in a better place, my friend I
know't. Some fellows would have cryed now, and have curst thee, and faln
out with their meat, and kept a pudder; but all this helps not, he was too
good for us, and let God keep him: there's the right use on't friend. Off
with thy drink, thou hast a spice of sorrow makes thee dry: fill him
another. _Savill_, your Master's dead, and who am I now _Savill_? Nay,
let's all bear it well, wipe _Savill_ wipe, tears are but thrown away: we
shall have wenches now, shall we not _Savill_?
_Savill_.
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