Sir P. Sir, to a wise man, all the world’s his soil:
It is not Italy, nor France, nor Europe,
That must bound me, if my fates call me forth.
Yet, I protest, it is no salt desire
Of seeing countries, shifting a religion,
Nor any disaffection to the state
Where I was bred, and unto which I owe
My dearest plots, hath brought me out; much less,
That idle, antique, stale, gray-headed project
Of knowing men’s minds and manners, with Ulysses!
But a peculiar humour of my wife’s
Laid for this height of Venice, to observe,
To quote, to learn the language, and so forth—
I hope you travel, sir, with license?

Per. Yes.

Sir P. I dare the safelier converse—How long, sir,
Since you left England?

Per. Seven weeks.

Sir P. So lately!
You have not been with my lord ambassador?

Per. Not yet, sir.

Sir P. Pray you, what news, sir, vents our climate?
I heard last night a most strange thing reported
By some of my lord’s followers, and I long
To hear how ’twill be seconded.

Per. What was’t, sir?

Sir P. Marry, sir, of a raven that should build
In a ship royal of the king’s.

Per. This fellow,
Does he gull me, trow? or is gull’d? [Aside.] Your name, sir.

Sir P. My name is Politick Would-be.

Per. O, that speaks him.—[Aside.]
A knight, sir?

Sir P. A poor knight, sir.

Per. Your lady
Lies here in Venice, for intelligence
Of tires, and fashions, and behaviour,
Among the courtezans? the fine lady Would-be?

Sir P. Yes, sir; the spider and the bee, ofttimes,
Suck from one flower.

Per. Good sir Politick,
I cry you mercy; I have heard much of you:
’Tis true, sir, of your raven.

Sir P. On your knowledge?

Per. Yes, and your lion’s whelping in the Tower.

Sir P. Another whelp!

Per. Another, sir.

Sir P. Now heaven!
What prodigies be these? The fires at Berwick!
And the new star! these things concurring, strange,
And full of omen! Saw you those meteors?

Per. I did, sir.