Wid. 'Tis a fine time of night, I shall thank her for't: 'tis past eleven, I am sure. Fetch the prayer-book lies within upon my bed.
Maid. Yes, forsooth. [Exit.
Wid. I wonder what this gentleman should be that catched me so like Jarvis: he said he has fitted old Bloodhound according to his quality; but I must not let him dally too long upon my daily company: lust is a hand-wolf, who with daily feeding, one time or other, takes a sudden start upon his benefactor.
Enter Maid.
Maid. O mistress, mistress!
Wid. What's the matter, wench?
Maid. A man, a man under your bed, mistress.
Wid. A man! what man?
Maid. A neat man, a proper man, a well-favoured man, a handsome man.
Wid. Call up John: where's Jarvis?