Tal. Vittles, my Lord? I hope wee have vittles at home.
Mom. I, but, sweet Lord, there is a principle in the Polititians physicke: Eat not[37] your meat upon other mens trenchers, and beware of surfets of your owne coste. Manie good companions cannot abide to eate meate at home, ye know. And how faires my noble Neece now, and her faire Ladie Feeres[38]?
Eug. What winde blowes you hether, troe?
Mom. Harke you, Madam, the sweet gale of one Clarences breath, with this his paper sayle blowes me hether.
Eug. Aye me still, in that humour? beshrewe my heart, if I take anie Papers from him.
Mom. Kinde bosome doe thou take it then.
Eug. Nay then never trust me.
Mom. Let it fall then or cast it away, you were best, that every body may discover your love suits, doe; theres somebody neare, you note it.—And how have you spent the time since Dinner, nobles?
King. At chests, my Lord.
Mom. Read it, Neece.