How I may best dispatch this serious cause.--
Hoe, sir, _Allenso_!

_Alle_. Father.

_Fall_. Hearken, sonne.
I must intreate your furtherance and advise
About a thing that doth concerne us neere.
First tell me how thou doost affect in heart
Little _Pertillo_, thy dead Unckles sonne.

_Allen_. So well, good father, that I cannot tell,
Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;
And yet if that my heart were calde to count,
I thinke it would surrender me to death,
Ere young _Pertillo_ should sustain a wrong.

_Fall_. How got his safetie such a deepe regarde
Within your heart, that you affect it so?

_Allen_. Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,
Of his dead father, gives such store of sap
Unto this tree of my affection
That it will never wither till I dye.

_Fall_. But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus,
Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.

_Allen_. His love dooth not estrange me from my selfe,
But doth confirme my strength with multitudes