[Enter Oliver and Ralph, two servingmen.]


OLIVER.
Sirrah Ralph, my young Mistress is in such a pitiful passionate
humor for the long absence of her love--

RALPH.
Why, can you blame her? why, apples hanging longer on the tree
then when they are ripe makes so many fallings; viz., Mad
wenches, because they are not gathered in time, are fain to
drop of them selves, and then tis Common you know for every
man to take em up.

OLIVER.
Mass, thou sayest true, Tis common indeed: but, sirrah, is
neither our young master returned, nor our fellow Sam come
from London?

RALPH.
Neither of either, as the Puritan bawd says. Slidd, I hear
Sam: Sam's come, her's! Tarry! come, yfaith, now my nose
itches for news.

OLIVER.
And so does mine elbow.

[Sam calls within. Where are you there?]

SAM.