Enter Prospero and Sanitonella.

Prospero:
Well, I do not think but to see you as pretty a
piece of law-flesh.

Sanitonella:
In time I may; marry I am resolv'd to take
a new way for't. You have lawyers take their clients' fees,
and their backs are no sooner turn'd, but they call them
fools, and laugh at them.

Prospero:
That's ill done of them.

Sanitonella:
There's one thing too that has a vile abuse in't.

Prospero:
What's that?

Sanitonella:
Marry this; that no proctor in the term
time be tolerated to go to the tavern above six times
i'th' forenoon.
Prospero:
Why, man?

Sanitonella:
O sir, it makes their clients overtaken, and
become friends sooner than they would be.

Enter Ercole with a letter, and Contarino, coming in Friars' habits, as having been at the Bathanites, a ceremony used afore these combats.

Ercole:
Leave the room, gentlemen.

Exeunt Prospero and Sanitonella.

Contarino: aside:
Wherefore should I with such an
obstinacy,
Conceal myself any longer? I am taught
That all the blood which will be shed tomorrow,
Must fall upon my head: one question
Shall fix or untie it. [to ERCOLE] Noble brother,
I would fain know how it is possible,
When it appears you love the fair Jolenta
With such a height of fervour, you were ready
To father another's child, and marry her,
You would so suddenly engage yourself
To kill her brother, one that ever stood,
Your loyal and firm friend?
Ercole:
Sir, I'll tell you:
My love, as I have formerly protested,
To Contarino, whose unfortunate end
The traitor wrought: and here is one thing more,
Dead's all good thoughts of him, which I now receiv'd
From Jolenta.

Contarino: In a letter?

Ercole:
Yes, in this letter:
For having sent to her to be resolv'd
Most truly, who was father of the child,
She writes back, that the shame she goes withal,
Was begot by her brother.

Contarino:
O most incestuous villain!

Ercole:
I protest,
Before I thought 'twas Contarino's issue,
And for that would have veil'd her dishonour.

Contarino:
No more. Has the armourer brought the
weapons?
Ercole:
Yes sir.

Contarino:
I will no more think of her.

Ercole: Of whom?

Contarino:
Of my mother; I was thinking
Of my mother. Call the armourer.

Exeunt.