Isa. Lord, how fretful you are! This breeding makes you so peevish, uncle.
Non. 'Tis no matter, she shall straight be married to Sir Timorous.
Const. I am ruined, cousin.
[Aside.
Isa. I warrant you.—My lord, I wish her well married to Sir Timorous; but Loveby will certainly infect him with the news of her great belly.
Non. I'll dispatch it, ere he can speak with him.
Isa. Whene'er he comes, he'll see what a bona roba she is grown.
Non. Therefore, it shall be done i'the evening.
Isa. It shall, my lord.
Const. Shall it?