Per. Why, my lord, when you cannot get it,
it goes to th'heart on you; and that I think comes
most neere you: and I am sure it shall be farre
enough off. And so wee leave you to our mercies. Exeunt Women.
Mons. Farewell, riddle.285
Gui. Farewell, medlar.
Mont. Farewell, winter plum.
Mons. Now, my lords, what fruit of our inquisition?
feele you nothing budding yet? Speak,
good my lord Montsurry.290