SPEED.
What then?
LANCE.
Why, then will I tell thee that thy master stays for thee at the North Gate.
SPEED.
For me?
LANCE.
For thee? Ay, who art thou? He hath stayed for a better man than thee.
SPEED.
And must I go to him?
LANCE.
Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn.
SPEED.
Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters!
[Exit.]
LANCE.
Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction.
[Exit.]