_Petr._ Why, sure I know this fellow; yes, 'tis he, _Francisco_, _Antonio's_ boy, a rare Musician, He taught my Sister on the Lute, and is ever (She loves his voice so well) about her: certain, Without all doubt she is here: it must be so. _John._ Here? that's no question: what should our hen Do here without her? if she be not here (o'th' game else I am so confident) let your grace believe, We two are arrant Rascals, and have abus'd ye. _Fred._ I say so too. _John._ Why there's the hood again now, The guard that guides us; I know the fabrick of it, And know the old tree of that saddle yet, 'twas made of, A hunting hood, observe it. _Duke._ Who shall enter? _Petr._ I'le make one. _John._ I, another. _Duke._ But so carry it, That all her joyes flow not together. _John._ If we told her, Your grace would none of her? _Duke._ By no means Signior, 'Twould turn her wild, stark frantick. _John._ Or assur'd her-- _Duke._ Nothing of that stern nature: this ye may Sir, That the conditions of our fear yet stand On nice and dangerous knittings: or that a little I seem to doubt the child. _John._ Would I could draw her To hate your grace with these things. _Petr._ Come let's enter. [_Ex._ Petr. _and_ John. And now he sees me not, I'le search her soundly. _Duke._ Now luck of all sides. [_Musick._ _Fred._ Doubt it not: more Musick: Sure she has heard some comfort. _Duke._ Yes, stand still Sir. _Fred._ This is the maddest song. _Duke._ Applyed for certain To some strange melancholy she is loaden with. _Fred._ Now all the sport begins--hark! _Duke._ They are amongst 'em, The fears now, and the shakings! [_Trampling above._ _Fred._ Our old Lady (Hark how they run) is even now at this instant Ready to lose her head-piece by Don John, Or creeping through a Cat hole. [Petr. _and_ John _within_. _Petr._ Bring 'em down, And you Sir, follow me. _Duke._ He's angry with 'em, I must not suffer this. _John, within._ Bowl down the Bawd there Old _Erra mater_: you Lady leachery, For the good will I bear to th' game, most tenderly Shall be lead out, and lash'd. _Enter_ Petrucchio, John, _Whore_, _and Bawd_, _with_ Francisco. _Duke._ Is this _Constantia_? Why Gentlemen? what do you mean? is this she? _Whore._ I am _Constantia_ Sir. _Duke._ A whore ye are Sir. _Whore._ 'Tis very true: I am a whore indeed Sir. _Petr._ She will not lye yet, though she steal. _Whore._ A plain whore, If you please to imploy me. _Duke._ And an impudent--