WIDDOW.
Tempt me not, Satan.
SIR GODFREY. Satan? do I look like Satan? I hope the Devil’s not so old as I, I tro.
WIDDOW.
You wound my senses, Brother, when you name
A suitor to me:—oh, I cannot abide it,
I take in poison, when I hear one nam’d.
[Enter Simon.]
How now, Simon? where’s my son Edmund?
SIMON.
Verily Madame, he is at vain Exercise, dripping in the
Tennis-court.
WIDDOW. At Tennis-court? oh, now his father’s gone, I shall have no rule with him; oh, wicked Edmond, I might well compare this with the Prophecy in the Chronicle, tho far inferior: as Harry of Monmouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all; so Edmund of Bristow, that was the Father, got all, and Edmond of London, that’s his son now, will spend all.
SIR GODFREY. Peace, Sister, we’ll have him reformed, there’s hope on him yet, tho it be but a little.
[Enter Frailty.]
FRAILTY. Forsooth, Madam, there are two or three Archers at door would very gladly speak with your Ladyship.