Bell. Oh ’las! it does concern a poor man’s life.
Hip. Life! sweetheart?—Seat yourself, I’ll but read this and come.
Lod. What stockings have you put on this morning, madam? if they be not yellow,[235] change them; that paper is a letter from some wench to your husband.
Inf. Oh sir, that cannot make me jealous.
[Exeunt all except Hippolito, Bellafront, and Antonio.
Hip. Your business, sir? to me?
Ant. Yes, my good lord.
Hip. Presently, sir.—Are you Matheo’s wife?
Bell. That most unfortunate woman.
Hip. I’m sorry these storms are fallen on him; I love Matheo,
And any good shall do him; he and I
Have sealed two bonds of friendship, which are strong
In me, however fortune does him wrong.
He speaks here he’s condemned. Is’t so?