Sweep. Marry, he’s gone but e’en now.
Duke. Ay, well done.—Tell me, whither is he gone?
Sweep. Why, to God a’mighty.
Flu. Ha, ha! this fellow’s a fool, talks idly.
Pio. Sirrah, are all the mad folks in Milan brought hither?
Sweep. How, all? there’s a question indeed: why if all the mad folks in Milan should come hither, there would not be left ten men in the city.
Duke. Few gentlemen or courtiers here, ha?
Sweep. O yes, abundance, abundance! lands no sooner fall into their hands, but straight they run out a’ their wits: citizens’ sons and heirs are free of the house by their fathers’ copy. Farmers’ sons come hither like geese, in flocks, and when they ha’ sold all their corn-fields, here they sit and pick the straws.
Sin. Methinks you should have women here as well as men.