Duch. What, what, my lord! are you so choleric
With Eleanor, for telling but her dream?
Next time I’ll keep my dreams unto myself,
And not be check’d.
55 Glou. Nay, be not angry; I am pleased again.
Enter Messenger.
Mess. My lord protector, ’tis his highness’ pleasure
[♦] You do prepare to ride unto Saint Alban’s,
[♦] Where as the king and queen do mean to hawk.
[♦] Glou. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt ride with us?