Ant. Why how now Sirs? you will not murder me indeed.
2 Ser. Bless us Roger!
Ant. Nay, I am no spirit.
2 Ser. How do you Sir, this is my very Master.
Ant. Why well enough yet, but you have a heavy foot of your own; Where's my Wife.
1 Ser. Alas poor sorrowful Gentlewoman, she thinks you are dead, and has given o're house-keeping.
Ant. Whether is she gone then?
1 Ser. Into the Countrey with the Gentleman your Friend Sir, to see if she can wear her sorrows out there; she weeps and takes on too too—
Ant. This falls out pat; I shall be everlasting for a name: Doe you hear? upon your lives and faiths to me, not one word I am living, but let the same report pass along, that I am murther'd still; I am made for ever.
1 Ser. Why Sir?