Gera. Alas! she's spent, i' faith: now the storm's over.
W. Rash. Ud's foot! I'll follow her, as long as I have any breath.
Gert. Nay, no more now, brother; you have no compassion; you see she cries.
Staines. If I do not wonder she could talk so long, I am a villain. She eats no nuts, I warrant her; 'sfoot, I am almost out of breath with that little I talked: well, gentle brothers, I might say (for she and I must clap hands upon't) a match for all this. Pray, go in; and, sister, salve the matter, collogue with her again, and all shall be well: I have a little business that must be thought upon, and 'tis partly for your mirth, therefore let me not (though absent) be forgotten: farewell.
W. Rash. We will be mindful of you, sir; fare you well.
Gera. How now, man! what, tired, tired?
W. Rash. Zounds, and you had talked as much as I did, you would be tired, I warrant. What, is she gone in? I'll to her again, whilst my tongue is warm: and if I thought I should be used to this exercise, I would eat every morning an ounce of licorish.[207]
[Exeunt.
Enter Lodge, the master of the prison, and Holdfast, his man.
Lodge. Have you summed up those reckonings?