Corn. Pray be more reason'd: if he made any Bawdes he did ill, for there is enough of that fly-blowne flesh already.
Onae. I'me now left naked quite: All's gone, all, all!
Corn. No, Madam, not all; for you cannot be rid of me.—Here comes your Uncle.
Enter Medina.
Onae. Attir'd in robes of vengeance are you, Uncle?
Med. More horrors yet?
Onae. 'Twas never full till now: And in this torrent all my hopes lye drown'd.
Med. Instruct me in this cause.
Onae. The King! the Contract!
[Exit.
Corn. There's cud enough for you to chew upon.
[Exit.