Lop. Nothing else, Sir?
Cur. Not any thing: no other person stirring.
Alp. O that I had that boy: this is that Devil,
That fairy Rogue, that haunted me last night;
H'as sleeves like Dragons wings.
Seb. A little Foot-boy.
Alp. Come, let's go in, and let me get my cloaths on;
If ere I stay here more to be thus martyr'd—
Did ye not meet the wench?
Seb. No sure, we met her not.
Alp. She has been here in Boys apparel, Gentlemen,
A gallant thing, and famous for a Gentlewoman.
And all her face patcht over for discovery:
A Pilgrim too, and thereby hangs a circumstance,
That she hath plaid her master-prize, a rare one.
I came too short.
Cur. Such a young Boy we met, Sir.
Alp. In a gray Hat.
Cur. The same: his face all patcht too.