MUCK.
But I expect a farther comfort, Lady.
WIDOW. Why la you now, did I not desire you to put off your suit quite and clean, when you came to me again? how say you? did I not?
MUCK.
But the sincere love which my heart bears you—
WIDOW. Go to, I’ll cut you off: and Sir Oliver, to put you in comfort a far off, my fortune is read me: I must marry again.
MUCK.
O blest fortune!
WIDOW.
But not as long as I can choose;—nay, I’ll hold out well.
MUCK.
Yet are my hopes now fairer.
[Enter Frailty.]
FRAILTY.
O Madam, Madam.
WIDOW.
How now, what’s the haste?