Ma. What a coyle has this fellow kept i'th' Nunnery,
Sure he has run the Abbess out of her wits.
Do. Out of the Nunnery I think, for we can neither see her,
Nor the young Cellide.
Ma. Pray Heavens he be not teasing.
Dor. Nay you may thank your self, 'twas your own structures.
Enter Hylas, and Sam.
Sam. Why there's the Gentlewoman.
Hyl. Mass 'tis she indeed;
How smart the pretty Thief looks! 'morrow Mistress.
Dor. Good morrow to you, Sir.
Sam. How strange she bears it!
Hyl. Maids must do so, at first.