Steph. At thy girdle, sweet, hang the keys
To lock the prison doors or let them loose:
'Twas my intent only (in way of mirth)
To rid them from the presence of Mistress Jane,
That our adopted son might have no bar
Unto his love.
Wife. The match is fair; and were that knot once tied,
I'd send some angels to attend the bride.
Enter George.
Steph. Sir, here's your factor.
Brew. Are the wares ready?
George. Yes, and delivered, sir, to Master Foster's servants, who conveyed them in carts to the Custom House, there to be shipped; but going with them, sir, I met ill news.
Brew. Ill news? what is't?
George. Old Master Foster's ships, so richly laden,
By strange misfortune, sir, are cast away.
Brew. Now heaven forbid!
Rob. O me!