Mor. Sir.
Ant. Is my caroch at door?
Tim. And your horses too, sir. Ye found her pliant?
Ant. Y' are rotten hospitals hung with greasy satin!
Tim. Ah!
Mor. Came this nice piece from Naples, with a pox to her?
Tim. And she has not Neapolitanised him, I'll be flea'd for't. [Exeunt Bawd and Pander.
Ant. Let me borrow goodness from thy lip. Farewell.
Here's a new wonder: I have met heaven in hell. [Exeunt.
Enter Venice, Verona, Lodovico, Pandulpho, Jaspro.