_A Room, with a door opening into_ FITSGRAVE’S
_Bed-chamber_.
_Enter_ GOLDSTONE.
GOL. Master Bouser, master Bouser! ha, ha, ho! master
Bouser!
FIT. [_within_] Holla!
GOL. What, not out of thy kennel, master Bouser?
FIT. [_within_] Master Goldstone? you’re an early
gallant, sir.
GOL. A fair cloak yonder, i’faith. [_Aside._]—By my
troth, ’a bed, master Bouser? you remember your promise
well o’ernight!
FIT. [_within_] Why, what’s a’ clock, sir?
GOL. Do you ask that now? why, the chimes are spent at
Saint Bride’s.
FIT. [_within_] ’Tis a gentleman’s hour: faith, master
Goldstone, I’ll be ready in a trice.
GOL. Away, there’s no trust to you!
FIT. [_within_] Faith, I’ll come instantly.
GOL. Nay, choose whether you will or no,—by my troth,
your cloak shall go before you.
[_Aside, and takes_ FITSGRAVE’S _cloak_.
FIT. [_within_] Nay, master Goldstone, I ha’ sworn: do
you hear, sir?
GOL. Away, away! faith, I’m angry with you: pox, a-bed
now! I’m ashamed of it. [_Exit._
_As_ GOLDSTONE _goes out_, FITSGRAVE _enters in his
shirt_.
FIT. Foot, my cloak, my cloak, master Goldstone!
’slife, what mean you by this, sir? you’ll bring it
back again, I hope. No? not yet? by my troth, I care
very little for such kind of jesting: methinks this
familiarity now extends a little too far, unless it be
a new fashion come forth this morning secretly;
yesterday ’twould have shewn unmannerly and saucily. I
scarce know yet what to think on’t. Well, there’s no
great profit in standing in my shirt, I’ll on with my
clothes: has bound me to follow the suit: my cloak’s a
stranger; he was made but yesterday, and I do not love
to trust him alone in company. [_Exit._