Alice. How now, Bradshaw, what’s the news with you?
Bradshaw. I have little news, but here’s a letter
That Master Greene importuned me to give you.
Alice. Go in, Bradshaw; call for a cup of beer;
’Tis almost supper-time, thou shalt stay with us.
[Exit Bradshaw.
Then she reads the letter.
‘We have missed of our purpose at London, but shall
perform it by the way. We thank our neighbour
Bradshaw.—Yours, Richard Greene.’
How likes my love the tenor of this letter? 160
Mosbie. Well, were his date completed and expired.
Alice. Ah, would it were! Then comes my happy hour:
Till then my bliss is mixed with bitter gall.
Come, let us in to shun suspicion.
Mosbie. Ay, to the gates of death to follow thee. [Exeunt.
III. v. 4. drink: perhaps we ought to read think.