Foul. Tis true indeed Sir Gyles, well then my almost french Elixers will you helpe my Lord to a Foole so fit for him as you say.
Wil. As fit, Ile warrant you Captaine, as if he were made for him, and he shall come this night to supper, and foole where his Lord: sits at table.
Foul. Excellent fit, faile not now, my sweet pages.
Ia. Not for a world, sir, we will goe both and seeke him presently.
Foul. Doe so my good wagges.
Wil. Save you Knights.
Ia. Save you Captaine. Exeunt.
Foul. Farewell, my pretty knaves; come, Knights, shall we resolve to goe to this Supper?
Rud. What else?
Goos. And let's provide torches for our men to sit at dore withall, Captaine.