Abs. What shall become of me? O, the curse
Of goodness, to leave one woe for a worse!
Enter Philippo.
Phil. Morrow, sweet madam.
O, look how, like the sun behind a cloud,
The beams do give intelligence it is there!
Tim. You're reciprocal welcome, sir.
Phil. What, have ye not brought this young wild haggard[152] to the lure yet?
Tim. Faith, sir, she's a little irregular yet: but time, that turns citizens' caps into court-periwigs, will bring the wonder about.
Phil. Bless you, sweet mistress!
Enter Antonio and Slave.
Mor. 'Sfoot! here's the prince: I smell thunder.