SCENE III.

_A Room, with a door opening into_ FITSGRAVE’S _Bed-chamber_.

_Enter_ GOLDSTONE.

GOL. Master Bouser, master Bouser! ha, ha, ho! master Bouser! FIT. [_within_] Holla! GOL. What, not out of thy kennel, master Bouser? FIT. [_within_] Master Goldstone? you’re an early gallant, sir. GOL. A fair cloak yonder, i’faith. [_Aside._]—By my troth, ’a bed, master Bouser? you remember your promise well o’ernight! FIT. [_within_] Why, what’s a’ clock, sir? GOL. Do you ask that now? why, the chimes are spent at Saint Bride’s. FIT. [_within_] ’Tis a gentleman’s hour: faith, master Goldstone, I’ll be ready in a trice. GOL. Away, there’s no trust to you! FIT. [_within_] Faith, I’ll come instantly. GOL. Nay, choose whether you will or no,—by my troth, your cloak shall go before you. [_Aside, and takes_ FITSGRAVE’S _cloak_. FIT. [_within_] Nay, master Goldstone, I ha’ sworn: do you hear, sir? GOL. Away, away! faith, I’m angry with you: pox, a-bed now! I’m ashamed of it. [_Exit._

_As_ GOLDSTONE _goes out_, FITSGRAVE _enters in his shirt_.

FIT. Foot, my cloak, my cloak, master Goldstone! ’slife, what mean you by this, sir? you’ll bring it back again, I hope. No? not yet? by my troth, I care very little for such kind of jesting: methinks this familiarity now extends a little too far, unless it be a new fashion come forth this morning secretly; yesterday ’twould have shewn unmannerly and saucily. I scarce know yet what to think on’t. Well, there’s no great profit in standing in my shirt, I’ll on with my clothes: has bound me to follow the suit: my cloak’s a stranger; he was made but yesterday, and I do not love to trust him alone in company. [_Exit._