Petr. Lodge these safe, till I send for 'em;
Let none come to 'em, nor no noise be heard
Of where they are, or why: away.
John. By this hand
A handsom whore: Now will I be arrested,
And brought home to this officers: a stout whore,
I love such stirring ware: pox o' this business,
A man must hunt out morsels for another,
And starve himself: a quick-ey'd whore, that's wild-fire,
And makes the bloud dance through the veins like billows.
I will reprieve this whore.
Duke. Well, good luck with ye.
Fred. As much attend your grace.
Petr. To morrow certain—
John. If we out-live this night Sir.
Fred. Come Don John,
We have something now to do.
John. I am sure I would have.
Fred. If she be not found, we must fight.
John. I am glad on't,
I have not fought a great while.