L. Nin. O, 'tis a pestilence knight, Mistress Lucida.
Luc. Ay, and a pocky.
Kath. This month or two! D'ye love me? not before?
It may be I will live so long Fame's whore!
[Exit Katherine.
Sir J. Wor. What lowering star rul'd my nativity!
You'll come to dinner?
Strange. Yes.
C. Fred. Good morrow, brother.
Come, let's be merry in despite of all,
And make this day (as't should be) festival.
Sir J. Wor. This sour thwart beginning may portend
Good, and be crown'd with a delicious end.
[Exeunt all but Strange.
Strange. So; I'll not see you, till my task be done:
So much false time I set to my intent,
Which instantly I mean to execute,
To cut off all means of prevention,
Which if they knew my day, they would essay.
Now for the merchant's honour. Hit all right:
Kate, your young Strange will lie with you to-night.
[Exit.
Enter Wagtail; the Page, stealing after her, conceals himself.