Enter Ismenus, and Timantus.
Timan. Is your Lordship for the Wars this Summer?
Ismen. Timantus, wilt thou go with me?
Timan. If I had a Company, my Lord.
Ismen. Of Fidlers: Thou a company?
No, no, keep thy Company at home, and cause cuckolds:
The Wars will hurt thy face, there's no Semsters,
Shoomakers, nor Taylors, nor Almond-milk i'th' morning,
Nor poach'd Egs to keep your worship soluble,
No man to warm your Shirt, and blow your Roses:
Nor none to reverence your round lace Breeches:
If thou wilt needs goe, and goe thus,
Get a Case for thy Captainship, a shower will spoil thee else.
Thus much for thee.
Tim. Your Lordship's wondrous witty, very pleasant believe't. [Exit.
Enter Telamon, Dorialus, Agenor, Nisus, Leonti.
Leon. No news yet of my Son?
Tela. Sir, there be divers out in search:
No doubt they'll bring the truth where he is,
Or the occasion that led him hence.
Tim. They have good eyes then.