Farewell, my sonne; things may so hit, 305
Thou maist have wealth to mend thy wit.
Booby. Farewell, father, farewell; for I must make hast after my two-hand sword that is gone before.
Exeunt omnes.
Enter Sacrapant in his studie.
Sacrapant. The day is cleare, the welkin bright and gray,
The larke is merrie, and records[1068] hir notes; 310
Each thing rejoyseth underneath the skie,
But onely I whom heaven hath in hate,
Wretched and miserable Sacrapant.