Harp. Souls, souls; a fish call'd souls.
Theoph. Geta!
Re-enter Geta.
Geta. My lord.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. What insolent slave is this, dares laugh at me?
Or what is 't the dog grins at so?
Geta. I neither know, my lord, at what, nor
whom; for there is none without, but my fellow
Julianus, and he is making a garland for Jupiter.
Theoph. Jupiter! all within me is not well;
And yet not sick.
Harp. [within.] Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Theoph. What's thy name, slave?