Fran. Can ye tell whether she be ticklish, sir?
Lod. O, infinitely ticklish!
Fran. I'll deserve your lease, then, ere you come home, I warrant.
Lod. And thou shalt ha't, i' faith, boy.
Enter Clown.
Clown. Your horse is ready, sir.
Lod. My lords, I think we have stayed with the longest. Farewell, Doll. Crede quod habes, et habes, gallants.
Pan. Our horses shall fetch it up again. Farewell, sweet lady.
Jas. Adieu, sweet mistress: and whensoe'er I marry,
Fortune turn up to me no worse card than you are!