Mom. Neece?——Mens est quae sola quietos, Sola facit claros, mentemque honoribus ornat.[20]
Eug. Verus honos juvat, at mendax infamia terret.[21]
Mom. Mine owne deare nephew?
Cla. What successe my Lord?
Mom. Excellent; excellent; come Ile tell thee all.—Exeunt.
Hip. Doe you heare Madam, how our youthes here have guld our three suiters?
Eug. Not I, Lady; I hope our suiters are no fit meat for our Pages.
Pe. No Madam, but they are fit sawce for any mans meat, Ile warrent them.
Eug. What's the matter Hippolyta?
Hip. They have sent the Knights to Barnet, Madam, this frosty morning to meet us there.