Bry. Pox on de gardens, and de weeds, and de fool’s cap dere, and de clouts! hear? dost make a hobby-horse of me? [Tearing the cambric.
All. Oh, fie! he has torn the cambric.
Cand. ’Tis no matter.
Ast. It frets me to the soul.
Cand. So does’t not me.
My customers do oft for remnants call,
These are two remnants, now, no loss at all.
But let me tell you, were my servants here,
It would ha’ cost more.—Thank you, gentlemen,
I use you well, pray know my shop again.
All. Ha, ha, ha! come, come, let’s go, let’s go. [Exeunt.
