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._