Gripe. How, gentlewoman, did you receive money from him?
Clar. O, my dear, 'twas only in jest, I knew you'd give it again to his wife.
Aml. But amongst all this tintamar, I don't hear a word of my hundred pounds. Is it Madam will pay me, or Master?
Gripe. I pay, the Devil shall pay.
Clar. Look you, my dear, malice apart, pay Mrs. Amlet her money, and I'll forgive you the wrong you intended my bed with Araminta: Am not I a good wife now?
Gripe. I burst with rage, and will get rid of this noose, tho' I tuck myself up in another.
Mon. Nay, pray, e'en tuck me up with you.
[Exit Mon. and Gripe.
Clar. & Aram. B'ye, dearies.