CORPORAL. I’m hurt, and had more need have Surgeons Lay hands upon me then rough Officers. OFFICER. Go, carry him to be dressed then. [Exeunt some of the Sheriff’s Officers with Corporal Oath.] This mutinous Soldier shall along with me to prison. SKIRMISH. To prison? where’s George? OFFICER. Away with him. [Exeunt with Skirmish.] [Re-enter Pye-board.] PYE. So. All lights as I would wish. The amazed widdow Will plant me strongly now in her belief, And wonder at the virtue of my words: For the event turns those presages from em Of being mad and dumb, and begets joy Mingled with admiration. These empty creatures, Soldier and Corporal, were but ordained As instruments for me to work upon. Now to my patient; here’s his potion. [Exit Pye-board.] SCENE II. An apartment in the Widow’s house.] [Enter the Widdow with her two Daughters.] WIDDOW. O wondrous happiness, beyond our thoughts: O lucky fair event! I think our fortunes, Were blest e’en in our Cradles: we are quitted Of all those shameful violent presages By this rash bleeding chance. Go, Frailty, run, and know, Whether he be yet living, or yet dead, That here before my door received his hurt. FRAILTY. Madam, he was carried to the superiour, but if he had no money when he came there, I warrant he’s dead by this time. [Exit Frailty.] FRANCES. Sure, that man is a rare fortune-teller; never looked upon our hands, nor upon any mark about us: a wondrous fellow, surely. MOLL. I am glad, I have the use of my tongue yet: tho of nothing else. I shall find the way to marry too, I hope, shortly. WIDDOW. O where’s my Brother, Sir Godfrey? I would he were here, that I might relate to him how prophetically the cunning Gentleman spoke in all things. [Enter Sir Godfrey in a rage.] SIR GODFREY. O my Chain, my Chain! I have lost my Chain. Where be these Villains, Varlets? WIDDOW. Oh! has lost his Chain. SIR GODFREY. My Chain, my chain! WIDDOW. Brother, be patient, hear me speak: you know I told you that a cunning man told me that you should have a loss, and he has prophecied so true. SIR GODFREY. Out, he’s a villain, to prophecy of the loss of my chain: twas worth above three hundred Crowns,—besides, twas my Fathers, my fathers fathers, my Grand-fathers huge grant- fathers. I had as lieve ha lost my Neck, as the chain that hung about it. O, my chain, my chain! WIDDOW. Oh, brother, who can be against a misfortune! tis happy twas no more. SIR GODFREY. No, more! O goodly godly sister, would you had me lost more? my best gown, too, with the cloth of gold-lace? my holiday Gascoines, and my Jerkin set with pearl? No more! WIDDOW. Oh, Brother! you can read— SIR GODFREY. But I cannot read where my chain is.—What strangers have been here? you let in strangers, Thieves, and Catch-poles; how comes it gone? there was none above with me but my Tailor; and my Tailor will not—steal, I hope? MOLL. No, he’s afraid of a chain! [Enter Frailty.] WIDDOW. How now, sirrah? the news?