Gent. Holla, Shaloon.
Shal. Who's there?
Gent. A word from the Duke, Sir.
Shal. Your pleasure.
Gent. Tell your Lord he must to Court strait.
Shal. He is ill at ease: and prays he may be pardon'd
The occasions of this night.
Gent. Belike he is drunk then:
He must away; the Duke and his fair Lady,
The beauteous Helena, are now at Cent.
Of whom she has such fortune in her carding,
The Duke has lost a thousand Crowns, and swears,
He will not go to bed, till by Lavall
The Tide of loss be turn'd again. Awake him,
For 'tis the pleasure of the Duke he must rise.
Sha. Having so strict command (Sir) to the contrary,
I dare not do it: I beseech your pardon.
Gent. Are you sure he is there?
Sha. Yes.