Short. For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her Streamers, Knapsacks, Glasses, Gugawes, as if I were a running flippery, I’le give ’em leave to cut my girts, and slay me.  I’le not be troubled with their Distibations, at every half miles end, I understand my self, and am resolved.

Hum. To morrow night at Olivers! who shall be there boys, who shall meet the wenches?

Rog. The well brew’d stand of Ale, we should have met at!

Short. These griefs like to another Tale of Troy, would mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher weep, Aeneas enters, and now the town’s lost.

Raph. Well whither run you, my Lady is mad.

Short. I would she were in Bedlam.

Raph. The carts are come, no hands to help to load ’em? the stuff lies in the hall, the plate. [Within Widow.] Why knaves there, where be these idle fellows?

Short. Shall I ride with one Boot?

Wid. Why where I say?

Raph. Away, away, it must be so.

Short. O for a tickling storm, to last but ten days. [Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.  Scena Prima.

Enter Isabella, and Luce.

Luc. By my troth Mistris I did it for the best.

Isab. It may be so, but Luce, you have a tongue, a dish of meat in your mouth, which if it were minced Luce, would do a great deal better.

Luce. I protest Mistress.

Isab. It will be your own one time or other:  Walter.

Walter [within.] Anon forsooth.

Isab. Lay my hat ready, my fan and cloak, you are so full of providence; and Walter, tuck up my little box behind the Coach, and bid my maid make ready, my sweet service to your good Lady Mistress; and my dog, good let the Coachman carry him.

Luce. But hear me.

Isab. I am in love sweet Luce, and you are so skilfull, that I must needs undo my self; and hear me, let Oliver pack up my Glass discreetly, and see my Curles well carried.  O sweet Luce, you have a tongue, and open tongues have open you know what, Luce.

Luce. Pray you be satisfied.

Isab. Yes and contented too, before I leave you:  there’s a Roger, which some call a Butcher, I speak of certainties, I do not fish Luce, nay do not stare, I have a tongue can talk too:  and a Green Chamber Luce, a back door opens to a long Gallerie; there was a night Luce, do you perceive, do you perceive me yet?  O do you blush Luce? a Friday night I saw your Saint, Luce:  for t’other box of Marmalade, all’s thine sweet Roger, this I heard and kept too.