Bacha. Fare thee well, I shall never see so brave a Gent.
Would I could weep out his offences.
Tim. Or I could weep out mine eyes.
Leon. Come Gentlemen, we'll determine presently
About his death: we cannot be too forward in our
Safety: I am very sick, lead me unto my bed. [Exeunt.
Enter Citizen and his Boy.
Cit. Sirrah, goe fetch my Fox from the Cutlers: There's money for the scowring: Tell him I stop a groat since the last great Muster: he had in stone Pitch for the bruise: he took with the recoyling of his Gun.
Boy. Yes Sir.
Cit. And do you hear? when you come, Take down my Buckler, and sweep the Cobwebs off: and grind the pick o[n']t, and fetch a Nail or two: and tack on bracers: your Mistriss made a pot-lid ont't, I thank her, at her Ma[yd]s Wedding, and burnt off the Handle.
Boy. I will Sir. [Exit.
Cit. Who's within here, hoe Neighbor, not stirring yet?
2 Cit. Oh, good morrow, good morrow: what news, what news?