Host. Yes and 'tis this, to see my body buried
In holy ground, for now I lye unhallowed,
By the clarks fault; let my new grave be made
Amongst good fellows, that have died before me,
And merry Hostes of my kind.
Clea. It shall be done.
Dor. And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral.
Clea. Do you know our travel?
Host. Yes, to seek your friends,
That in afflictions wander now.
Clean. Alas!
Host. Seek 'em no farther, but be confident
They shall return in peace.
Dor. There's comfort yet.
Clea. Pray ye one word more, is't in your power mine Host,
Answer me softly, some hours before my death,
To give me warning?
Host. I cannot tell ye truly,
But if I can, so much alive I lov'd ye,
I will appear again, adieu. [Exit.