"Sir Lorenzo,
I muse we cannot see thee at Florence: 'Sblood, I doubt,
Apollo hath got thee to be his Ingle, that thou comest
not abroad, to visit thine old friends: well, take heed
of him; he may do somewhat for his household servants, or
so; But for his Retainers, I am sure, I have known some
of them, that have followed him, three, four, five years
together, scorning the world with their bare heels, and
at length been glad for a shift (though no clean shift)
to lie a whole winter, in half a sheet cursing Charles'
wain, and the rest of the stars intolerably. But (quis
contra diuos?) well; Sir, sweet villain, come and see me;
but spend one minute in my company, and 'tis enough: I
think I have a world of good jests for thee: oh, sir, I
can shew thee two of the most perfect, rare and absolute
true Gulls, that ever thou saw'st, if thou wilt come.
'Sblood, invent some famous memorable lie, or other,
to flap thy Father in the mouth withal: thou hast been
father of a thousand, in thy days, thou could'st be no
Poet else: any scurvy roguish excuse will serve; say
thou com'st but to fetch wool for thine Ink-horn. And
then, too, thy Father will say thy wits are a wool-
gathering. But it's no matter; the worse, the better.
Anything is good enough for the old man. Sir, how if thy
Father should see this now? what would he think of me?
Well, (how ever I write to thee) I reverence him in my
soul, for the general good all Florence delivers of him.
Lorenzo, I conjure thee (by what, let me see) by the depth
of our love, by all the strange sights we have seen in
our days, (ay, or nights either), to come to me to