Enter Mistress Foster.
Mrs Fos. Still flows the tide of my unhappiness;
The stars shoot mischief, and every hour
Is critical to me.
O. Fos. How now, woman?
Wrecked in the haven of felicity? What ail'st thou?
Mrs Fos. I think the devil's mine enemy.
O. Fos. I hope so too; his hate is better than his friendship.
Mrs Fos. Your brother—your good brother, sir——
O. Fos. What of him? he's in Ludgate again.
Mrs Fos. No, he's in Highgate; he struts it bravely—
An alderman's pace at least.
O. Fos. Why, these
Are oracles, doubtful enigmas!