Enter Iacke, and Will on the other side.
Am. Save your Lordship.
Fur. My pretty cast-of Merlins,[40] what prophecies with your little maestershippes?
Ia. Things that cannot come to passe my Lord, the worse our fortunes.
Foul. Why, whats the matter Pages?
Rud. How now, my Ladies foysting[41] hounds.
Goos. M. Iacke, M. Ia. how do ye M. William? frolicke?
Wil. Not so frolicke, as you left us, sir Gyles.
Fur. Why wags, what news bring you a Gods name?
Ia. Heavy newes indeed, my Lord, pray pardon us.