Anth. What, never storm,
But bridle anger with wise government.
Heigh. Whom? Anthony, our friend! Ah, now our hopes
Are found too light to balance our ill-haps.
Anth. Tut, ne'er say so, for Anthony
Is not devoid of means to help his friends.
Wal. 'Swounds! what a devil made he forth so late?
I'll lay my life, 'twas he that feigned to sleep,
And we, all unsuspicious, term'd a rogue.
O God! had I but known him, if I had,
I would have writ such letters with my sword
Upon the bald skin of his parching pate,
That he should ne'er have liv'd to cross us more.
Anth. These menaces are vain, and helpeth nought;
But I have, in the depth of my conceit,
Found out a more material stratagem.
Hark, Master Walgrave, your's craves quick despatch,
About it straight, stay not to say farewell.
[Exit Walgrave.
You, Master Heigham, hie you to your chamber,
And stir not forth: my shadow, or myself,
Will in the morning early visit you.
Build on my promise, sir, and so good night.
[Exit Heigham.
Last, yet as great in love as to the first,
If you remember, once I told a jest
How, feigning to be sick, a friend of mine
Possess'd the happy issue of his love.
That counterfeited humour must you play;
I need not to instruct, you can conceive,
Use Master Brown, your host, as chief in this:
But first, to make the matter seem more true,
Sickly and sadly bid the churl good night.
I hear him at the window: there he is.
Enter Pisaro above.