THO. By Christ, I would not for a thousand crowns.

BIA. What ail you, sweet-heart? are you not well? speak, good
Muss.

THO. Troth, my head aches extremely on a sudden.

BIA. Oh Jesu!

THO. How now! what!

BIA. Good Lord, how it burns! Muss, keep you warm; good truth,
it is this new disease, there's a number are troubled withall for
God's sake, sweet-heart, come in out of the air.

THO. How simple, and how subtle are her answers!
A new disease, and many troubled with it.
Why true, she heard me all the world to nothing.

BIA. I pray thee, good sweet-heart, come in; the air will do you
harm, in troth.

THO. I'll come to you presently, it will away, I hope.

BIA. Pray God it do.

[EXIT.]

THO. A new disease! I know not, new or old,
But it may well be call'd poor mortals' Plague;