Raph. Well whither run you, my Lady is mad.
Short. I would she were in Bedlam.
Raph. The carts are come, no hands to help to load 'em? the stuff lies in the hall, the plate. [Within Widow.] Why knaves there, where be these idle fellows?
Short. Shall I ride with one Boot?
Wid. Why where I say?
Raph. Away, away, it must be so.
Short. O for a tickling storm, to last but ten days. [Exeunt.
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
Enter Isabella, and Luce.
Luc. By my troth Mistris I did it for the best.