Cle. At what, thou thing of nothing—
Am. Cousin Cleontius, you are angry.
Cle. Madam, it is unjustly then, for Fools Should rather move the Spleen to Mirth than Anger.
Am. You’ve too much wit to take ought ill from him: Let’s know your quarrel.
Fal. By Jove, Labree, I am undone again.
Cle. Madam, it was about—
Fal. Hold, dear Cleontius, hold, and I’ll do any thing. [Aside.
Cle. Just nothing—
Fal. He was a little too familiar with me.
Cle. Madam, my Sister Isillia—