Sir, you are welcome what so ere you be; I guesse your birth great by your bounteous fee.

He that loves servant is, perhaps may guesse Their blisse; but none there is can it expresse.

I'me no Gamester, Eustace, Yet I can guesse your resolution stands To win or loose all; I rejoyce to find ye Thus tender of your honour, and that at length You understand what a wretched thing you were, How deeply wounded by your selfe, and made Almost incurable, in your owne hopes, The dead flesh of pale cowardise growing over Your festred reputation, which no balme Or gentle unguent ever could make way to,