_Ser_. This critique is hoarsh [_sic_], unsaverie, and reproofeful;
avoyd him.
_Scil_. Hee speakes well, but I like not his dispraysing of drunkennes;
tis Phisicke to me and it makes me to sleep like a horse with my nose in
the manger. Come, sweet heart.
_Hostis_. Signior, _Philautus_, I pray ye a word. [_Exit_.
_Acut_. How now, whispering? s'foot if they should give our purpose
another crosse point, where are we then? note, note.
_Hostis_. Heere take the key, convey yourself into the Chamber, but in
any case take heede my husband see you not.
_Phy_. Feare not, Gentles, be thanks the guerden of your love till time
give better abilitie. [_Exit_.
_Acut_. Ha! nay s'foot, I must claw out another device, we must not part
so, _Graccus_; prethee keepe the sceane, til I fetch more actors to fill
it fuller.
_Gra_. But prethee, let me partake.
_Acut_. Not till I returne, pardon me. [_Exit_.
_Hostis_. By my troth Gossip, I am halfe sick of a conceit.
_Citty wife_. What, woman? passion of my heart, tell me your greefs.
Pages:
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421