Math. I will.
Mar. No, I.
Laur. Thou wilt not speak for crying.
Mar. Yes, yes, I warrant you; that humour's left.
Be I but mov'd a little. I shall speak,
And anger him, I fear, ere I have done.
Enter Anthony.
All. Whom? Anthony, our friend, our schoolmaster?
Now help us, gentle Anthony, or never.
Anth. What! is your hasty running chang'd to prayer?
Say, where were you going?
Laur. Even to our father,
To know what he intends to do with us.
Anth. 'Tis bootless, trust me; for he is resolv'd
To marry you to—
Mar. The strangers?