and by _Raph._ I am making up o'th' trunks here.

_Raph._ _Shorthose_.

_Short._ Well.

_Raph._ Who looks to my Ladys wardrobe? _Humphrey_.

_Hum._ Here.

_Raph._ Down with the boxes in the gallery, and bring away the
Coach cushions.

_Short._ Will it not rain, no conjuring abroad, nor no devices to
stop this journey?

_Rog._ Why go now, why now, why o'th' sudden now? what preparation,
what horses have we ready, what provision laid in i'th' Country?

_Hum._ Not an egge I hope.

_Rog._ No nor one drop of good drink boyes, there's the devil.

_Short._ I heartily pray the malt be musty, and then we must come
up again.

_Hum._ What sayes the Steward?

_Rog._ He's at's wits end, for some four hours since, out of his
haste and providence, he mistook the Millars mangie mare, for his own
nagge.

_Short._ And she may break his neck, and save the journy. Oh
_London_ how I love thee!

_Hum._ I have no boots nor none I'le buy: or if I had, refuse me if
I would venture my ability, before a Cloak-Bag, men are men.

_Short._ For my part, if I be brought, as I know it will be aimed
at, to carry any durty dairy Cream-pot, or any gentle Lady of the
Laundry, Chambring, or wantonness behind my Gelding, with all her
Streamers, Knapsacks, Glasses, Gugawes, as if I were a running flippery,
I'le give 'em leave to cut my girts, and slay me. I'le not be troubled
with their Distibations, at every half miles end, I understand my self,
and am resolved.

_Hum._ To morrow night at _Olivers_! who shall be there boys,
who shall meet the wenches?

_Rog._ The well brew'd stand of Ale, we should have met at!

_Short._ These griefs like to another Tale of _Troy_, would
mollifie the hearts of barbarous people, and Tom Butcher weep,
_Aeneas_ enters, and now the town's lost.

_Raph._ Well whither run you, my Lady is mad.

_Short._ I would she were in Bedlam.

_Raph._ The carts are come, no hands to help to load 'em? the stuff
lies in the hall, the plate. [_Within Widow._] Why knaves there,
where be these idle fellows?

_Short._ Shall I ride with one Boot?

_Wid._ Why where I say?

_Raph._ Away, away, it must be so.

_Short._ O for a tickling storm, to last but ten days. [_Exeunt._

_Actus Tertius. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Isabella, _and_ Luce.

_Luc._ By my troth Mistris I did it for the best.

_Isab._ It may be so, but _Luce_, you have a tongue, a dish of
meat in your mouth, which if it were minced _Luce_, would