Maq. A pretty boy, faith: how old art thou?
Page. I think fourteen.
Maq. Nay, an ye be in the teens—are ye a gentleman born? do you know me? my name is Medam Maquerelle; I lie in the old Cunny-court.
[Page.] See, here the ladies. 10
Enter Bianca and Emilia.
Bian. A fair day to ye, Maquerelle.
Emil. Is the duchess up yet, sentinel?
Maq. O ladies, the most abominable mischance! O dear ladies, the most piteous disaster! Ferneze was taken last night in the duchess’ chamber: alas, the duke catched him and killed him!
Bian. Was he found in bed? 17
Maq. O, no; but the villainous certainty is, the door was not bolted, the tongue-tied hatch held his peace: so the naked troth is, he was found in his shirt, whilst I, like an arrant beast, lay in the outward chamber, heard nothing; and yet they came by me in the dark, and yet I felt them not, like a senseless creature as I was. O beauties, look to your busk-points;[484] if not chastely, yet charily: be sure the door be bolted.—Is your lord gone to Florence?