Scan. In troth, Ime angry, that you should mistrust me.
Lor. The Frier, the Frier: ha, ha, ha!
He that the Lord imploy’d to be his Agent,
Who doe you thinke it was?
Scan. Father Anthonie, wast not?
Lor. The Deuill it was: no faith,
It was, ha, ha, ha!
It was no other, then Lisandro Prince of Naples,
That stole to my Lady in that Habit,
And guld your Lord most palpably.