Inf. Father, your love’s most dear.
Mat. Ay, well said, lock us into some little room by ourselves, that we may be mad for an hour or two.
Hip. O, good Matheo, no, let’s make no noise.
Mat. How! no noise! do you know where you are? ’sfoot, amongst all the mad-caps in Milan: so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, and no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton[210]: the more sober we are, the more scurvy ’tis. And though the friar tell us, that here we are safest, I am not of his mind, for if those lay here that had lost their money, none would ever look after them, but here are none but those that have lost their wits, so that if hue and cry be made, hither they’ll come; and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad.
Hip. Muffle yourselves, yonder’s Fluello.
Enter Fluello.
Mat. Zounds!
Flu. O my lord, these cloaks are not for this rain! the tempest is too great: I come sweating to tell you of it, that you may get out of it.
Mat. Why, what’s the matter?
Flu. What’s the matter? you have mattered it fair: the duke’s at hand.