Boy. Shall I help you to bed, Sir, [Taper, pen & inke: Table.
Leid. No, my Boy, not yet.
Boy. 'Tis late and I grow sleepie.
Leid. Goe to bed then, For I must wryte, my Childe.
Boy. I had rather watch, Sir, If you sitt up, for I know you will wake me.
Leid. Indeed I will not; goe, I have much to doe; Prethee to bed; I will not waken thee.
Boy. Pray, Sir, leave wryting till to morrow.
Leid. Why, Boy?
Boy. You slept but ill last night, and talkd in your sleep, too; Tumbled and tooke no rest.
Leid. I ever doe soe. Good Boy, to bed; my busines is of waight And must not be deferrd: good night, sweet Boy.