Brass. Fear nothing, all’s safe on that side yet. But how speaks young mistress’s epistle? soft and tender?
Dick. As pen can write.
Brass. So you think all goes well there?
Dick. As my heart can wish.
Brass. You are sure on’t?
Dick. Sure on’t!
Brass. Why then, ceremony aside—[Putting on his hat]—you and I must have a little talk, Mr. Amlet.
Dick. Ah, Brass, what art thou going to do? wo’t ruin me?
Brass. Look you, Dick, few words; you are in a smooth way of making your fortune; I hope all will roll on. But how do you intend matters shall pass ’twixt you and me in this business?
Dick. Death and furies! What a time does take to talk on’t?