Mart. Your Graces servant. [Exit.
Theod. [You'le] hunt no more Sir.
Thier. Not to day, the weather
Is grown too warm, besides the dogs are spent,
We'll take a cooler morning, let's to horse,
And hollow in the troop. [Exeunt. Wind horns.
Enter 2 Huntsmen.
1. I marry Twainer,
This woman gives indeed, these are the Angels
That are the keepers saints.
2. I like a woman
That handles the deers dowsets with discretion;
And payes us by proportion.
1. 'Tis no treason
To think this good old Lady has a stump yet
That may require a corrall.
2. And the bells too.
Enter Protaldye.
Shee has lost a friend of me else, but here's the clark,
No more for feare o'th' bell ropes.