[Exit Post.
Fool. Go to, go to, I do believe thee: marry, an thou
art humble, thy purse is somewhat prouder. Good sir,
wer’t not best we put on; I am faint at heart: marry,
’tis pity my wits did not fill their owner, as well as those
who do beg them.
Pas. Let’s on; and yet what course is’t fit we take?
The night doth throw his sooty mantle round,
And robs us of the cheering light of day.
Fla. Oh! would this night could pluck my sorrow from me!