F. Silence. Are they off?
T. They are coming.
F. Hark now what you have to do. Cross the grass silently, unlock my door, creep upstairs like a thief, and sit in my chamber without a movement till I come.
T. The grass is like a sponge. I have begun to catch cold already: I am just going to sneeze.
F. Sneeze, and I’ll strangle you.
T. Is this your treatment for all my services?
F. Your service is your duty to obey:
And once you served me well: of late you are grown
Questionous and prying; which I have so far borne,
Because I have been in doubt whether it were best