_Val._ The Town's the happier, I would they were all gone. _Fount._ We cannot come to speak with her. _Val._ Not to speak to her? _Bel._ She will be gone within this hour, either now _Val._ _Fount._ _Hare._ Now, now, now, good _Val._ _Val._ I had rather march i'th' mouth o'th' Cannon, but adiew, if she be above ground, go, away to your prayers, away I say, away, she shall be spoken withall. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ Shorthose _with one boot on_, Roger,_and_ Humphrey. _Rog._ She will go, _Shorthose_. _Short._ Who can help it _Roger_? _Raph._ [_within._] Help down with the hangings. _Rog._ By 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.