Y. Lord W. 'Tis I, the lord your son, that shall be; upon my honour, I came not to rob you.
Hog. I shall run mad! I shall run mad!
Y. Lord W. Why, then, 'tis my fortune to be terrified with madmen.
Enter Peter Servitude, with a candle.
P. Ser. Where are you, my lord?
Hog. Here, my lady. Where are you, rogue, when thieves break into my house?
P. Ser. Breaking my neck in your service—a plague on't!
Y. Lord W. But are you robbed, indeed, father Hog? Of how much, I pray?
Hog. Of all, of all! See here, they have left me nothing but two or three rolls of parchment; here they came up like spirits, and took my silver, gold, and jewels. Where's my daughter?
P. Ser. She's not in the house, sir. The street-doors are wide open.