Lur. I shake, I shake Boy, what a cold sweat—
Boy. This may work, what will become on's Sir?
Mi. She is cold, dead cold: de'e find 'your conscience,
De'e bring your Gillians hither—nay, she's punish'd,
You conceal'd love's cas'd up?
Lur. 'Tis Maria, the very same, the Bride, new horror!
Mi. These are fine tricks, you hope she's in a sound
But I'll take order she shall ne'r recover
To bore my Nose, come, take her up and bury her
Quickly, or I'll cry out; take her up instantly.
Lu. Be not so hasty fool, that may undo us;
We may be in for murther so; be patient,
Thou seest she's dead, and cannot injure thee.
Mi. I am sure she shall not.
Boy. Be not, Sir, dejected,
Too much a strange mistake! this had not been else,
It makes me almost weep to think upon't.
Lu. What an unlucky thief am I!
Mi. I'll no considering, either bestir your self, or—