Chapter XXVIII: Act I: Scene I

_A Street._

_Enter_ LACTANTIO, AURELIA, _and Servant_.

_Song within._

_To be chaste is woman’s glory,
’Tis her fame and honour’s story:
Here sits she in funeral weeds,
Only bright in virtuous deeds;
Come and read her life and praise,
That singing weeps, and sighing plays._

LAC. Welcome, soul’s music! I’ve been listening here
To melancholy strains from the duchess’ lodgings;
That strange great widow, that has vow’d so stiffly
Ne’er to know love’s heat in a second husband:
And she has kept the fort most valiantly,
To th’ wonder of her sex, this seven year’s day,
And that’s no sorry trial. A month’s constancy
Is held a virtue in a city-widow;
And are they excell’d by so much more i’ th’ court?
My faith, a rare example for our wives!
Heaven’s blessing of[864] her heart for it! poor soul,
She had need have somewhat to comfort her.
What wouldst thou do, faith, now,
If I were dead, suppose I were thy husband,
As shortly I will be, and that’s as good?
Speak freely, and[865] thou lov’st me.
AUR. Alas, sir,
I should not have the leisure to make vows;
For dying presently, I should be dead
Before you were laid out!
LAC. Now fie upon thee for a hasty dier!
Wouldst thou not see me buried?
AUR. Talk not on’t, sir,
These many years, unless you take delight
To see me swoon, or make a ghost of me.
LAC. Alas, poor soul! I’ll kiss thee into colour:
Canst thou paint pale so quickly? I perceive then
Thou’dst go beyond the duchess in her vow,
Thou’dst die indeed. What’s he?
AUR. Be settled, sir;
Spend neither doubt nor fear upon that fellow:
Health cannot be more trusty to man’s life
Than he to my necessities in love.
LAC. I take him of thy word, and praise his face,
Though he look scurvily; I’ll think hereafter
That honesty may walk with fire in’s nose,
As well as brave desert in broken clothes:
But for thy further safety, I’ve provided
A shape, that at first sight will start thy modesty,
And make thee blush perhaps, but 'twill away
After a qualm or two. Virginity
Has been put often to those shifts before thee
Upon extremities; a little boldness
Cannot be call’d immodesty, especially
When there’s no means without it for our safeties.
Thou know’st my uncle, the lord cardinal,
Wears so severe an eye, so strict and holy,
It not endures the sight of womankind
About his lodgings:
Hardly a matron of fourscore’s admitted;
Though she be worn to gums, she comes not there
To mumble matins; all his admiration
Is plac’d upon the duchess; he likes her,
Because she keeps her vow and likes not any;
So does he love that man above his book
That loves no woman: for my fortune’s sake then,
For I am like to be his only heir,
I must dissemble, and appear as fair
To his opinion as the brow of piety;
As void of all impureness as an altar:
Thine ear [_whispers_]; that, and we’re safe.
AUR. You make me blush, sir.
LAC. ’Tis but a star shot from a beauteous cheek,
It blazes beauty’s bounty, and hurts nothing.
AUR. The power of love commands me.
LAC. I shall wither
In comforts, till I see thee. [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II.

_The Cardinal’s Closet._

_Enter Cardinal and Lords._

CAR. My lords, I’ve work for you: when you have hours
Free from the cares of state, bestow your eyes
Upon those abstracts of the duchess’ virtues,
My study’s ornaments. I make her constancy
The holy mistress of my contemplation;
Whole volumes have I writ in zealous praise
Of her eternal vow: I have no power
To suffer virtue to go thinly clad.
I that have ever been in youth an old man
To pleasures and to women, and could never
Love, but pity 'em,
And all their momentary frantic follies,
Here I stand up in admiration,
And bow to the chaste health of our great duchess,
Kissing her constant name. O my fair lords,
When we find grace confirm’d, especially
In a creature that’s so doubtful as a woman,
We’re spirit-ravish’d; men of our probation
Feel the sphere’s music playing in their souls.
So long, unto th’ eternising of her sex,
Sh’as kept her vow so strictly, and as chaste
As everlasting life is kept for virtue,
Even from the sight of men; to make her oath
As uncorrupt as th’ honour of a virgin,
That must be strict in thought, or else that title,
Like one of frailty’s ruins, shrinks to dust:
No longer she’s a virgin than she’s just.
FIRST LORD. Chaste, sir? the truth and justice of her
vow
To her deceas’d lord’s able to make poor
Man’s treasury of praises. But, methinks,
She that has no temptation set before her,
Her virtue has no conquest: then would her constancy
Shine in the brightest goodness of her glory,
If she would give admittance, see and be seen,
And yet resist, and conquer: there were argument
For angels; 'twould outreach the life of praise
Set in mortality’s shortness. I speak this
Not for religion, but for love of her,
Whom I wish less religious, and more loving:
But I fear she’s too constant, that’s her fault;
But ’tis so rare, few of her sex are took with’t,
And that makes some amends.
CAR. You’ve put my zeal into a way, my lord,
I shall not be at peace till I make perfect:
I’ll make her victory harder; ’tis my crown
When I bring grace to great’st perfection;
And I dare trust that daughter with a world,
None but her vow and she. I know she wears
A constancy will not deceive my praises,
A faith so noble; she that once knows heaven
Need put in no security for her truth;
I dare believe her. Face,[866] use all the art,
Temptation, witcheries, slights,[867] and subtleties,
You temporal lords and all your means can practice——
SEC. LORD. My lord, not any we.
CAR. Her resolute goodness
Shall as a rock stand firm, and send the sin
That beat[s] against it
Into the bosom of the owners weeping.
THIRD LORD. We wish[868] her virtues so.
CAR. O, give me pardon!
I’ve lost myself in her upon my friends.
Your charitable censures[869] I beseech:
So dear her white fame is to my soul’s love,
’Tis an affliction but to hear it question’d;
She’s my religious triumph:
If you desire a belief rightly to her,
Think she can never waver, then you’re sure:
She has a fixed heart, it cannot err;
He kills my hopes of woman that doubts her.
FIRST LORD. No more, my lord, ’tis fix’d.
CAR. Believe my judgment;
I never praise in vain, nor ever spent
Opinion idly, or lost hopes of any
Where I once plac’d it; welcome as my joys,
Now you all part believers of her virtue!
LORDS. We are the same most firmly.
CAR. Good opinion
In others reward you and all your actions!
[_Exeunt Lords._
Who’s near us?

_Enter Servant._

SER. My lord?
CAR. Call our nephew. [_Exit Servant._]—There’s a work
too
That for blood’s sake I labour to make perfect,
And it comes on with joy. He’s but a youth,
To speak of years, yet I dare venture him
To old men’s goodnesses and gravities
For his strict manners, and win glory by him;
And for the chasteness of his continence,
Which is a rare grace in the spring of man,
He does excel the youth of all our time;
Which gift of his, more than affinity,
Draws my affection in great plenty to him:
The company of a woman’s as fearful to him
As death to guilty men; I’ve seen him blush
When but a maid was nam’d: I’m proud of him,
Heaven be not angry for’t! he’s near of kin
In disposition to me. I shall do much for him
In life-time, but in death I shall do all;
There he will find my love: he’s yet too young
In years to rise in state, but his good parts
Will bring him in the sooner. Here he comes.

_Enter_ LACTANTIO _with a book_.

What, at thy meditation? half in heaven?
LAC. The better half, my lord, my mind’s there still;
And when the heart’s above, the body walks here
But like an idle serving-man below,
Gaping and waiting for his master’s coming.
CAR. What man in age could bring forth graver
thoughts?
LAC. He that lives fourscore years is but like one
That stays here for a friend; when death comes, then
Away he goes, and is ne’er seen agen.[870]
I wonder at the young men of our days,
That they can doat on pleasure, or what ’tis
They give that title to, unless in mockage:
There’s nothing I can find upon the earth
Worthy the name of pleasure, unless 't be
To laugh at folly, which indeed good charity
Should rather pity; but of all the frenzies
That follow flesh and blood, O reverend uncle,
The most ridiculous is to fawn on women;
There’s no excuse for that; ’tis such a madness,
There is no cure set down for’t; no physician
Ever spent hour about it, for they guess’d
'Twas all in vain when they first lov’d themselves,
And never since durst practise; cry _Hei mihi_,[871]
That’s all the help they’ve for’t. I had rather meet
A witch far north, than a fine fool in love,
The sight would less afflict me: but for modesty,
And your grave presence that learns men respect,
I should fall foul in words upon fond[872] man,
That can forget his excellence and honour,
His serious meditations, being the end
Of his creation to learn well to die,
And live a prisoner to a woman’s eye:
Can there be greater thraldom, greater folly?
CAR. In making him my heir, I make good works,
And they give wealth a blessing; where,[873] on the
contrary,
What curses does he heap upon his soul
That leaves his riches to a riotous young man,
To be consum’d on surfeits, pride, and harlots!
Peace be upon that spirit, whose life provides
A quiet rest for mine! [_Aside._

_Enter Page._[874]

LAC. How now? the news?
PAGE. A letter, sir [_gives letter to_ LACTANTIO],
brought by a gentleman
That lately came from Rome.
LAC. That’s she; she’s come;
I fear not to admit her in his presence,
There is the like already: I’m writ chaste
In my grave uncle’s thoughts, and honest meanings
Think all men’s like their own. [_Aside._]—Thou look’st
so pale!
What ail’st thou here a’ late?
PAGE. I doubt I’ve cause, sir.
LAC. Why, what’s the news?
PAGE. I fear, sir, I’m with child.
LAC. With child? peace, peace; speak low.
PAGE. 'Twill prove, I fear, so.
LAC. Beshrew my heart for that!—Desire the gentleman
To walk a turn or two.
CAR. What gentleman?
LAC. One lately come from Rome, my lord, in credit
With Lord Vincentio; so the letter speaks him.
CAR. Admit him, my kind boy. [_Exit Page._]—The
prettiest servant
That ever man was bless’d with! ’tis so meek,
So good and gentle; ’twas the best alm’s-deed
That e’er you did to keep him: I’ve oft took him
Weeping alone, poor boy, at the remembrance
Of his lost friends, which, as he says, the sea
Swallow’d, with all their substance.
LAC. ’Tis a truth, sir,
Has cost the poor boy many a feeling tear,
And me some too, for company: in such pity
I always spend my part. Here comes the gentleman.

_Enter_ AURELIA _disguised as a man_.

CAR. Welcome to Milan, sir: how is the health
Of Lord Vincentio?
AUR. May it please your grace,
I left it well and happy, and I hope
The same bless’d fortune keeps it.
CAR. I hear you’re near him.
AUR. One of his chamber, my lord.
LAC. I’d ne’er wish one of her condition nearer
Than to be one of mine. [_Aside._
CAR. Your news is pleasing:
Whilst you remain in Milan, I request you
To know the welcome of no house but ours.
AUR. Thanks to your grace.
CAR. I’ll leave you to confer;
I’ll to the duchess, and labour her perfection.
[_Exit._

LAC. Then thus begins our conference: I arrest thee
In Cupid’s name; deliver up your weapon,
[_Takes her sword._

It is not for your wearing, Venus knows it:
Here’s a fit thing indeed! nay, hangers[875] and all;
Away with 'em, out upon 'em! things of trouble,
And out of use with you. Now you’re my prisoner;
And till you swear you love me, all and only,
You part not from mine arms.
AUR. I swear it willingly.
LAC. And that you do renounce the general’s love,
That heretofore laid claim to you.
AUR. My heart bids me,
You need not teach me that; my eye ne’er knew
A perfect choice till it stood bless’d with you.
There’s yet a rival whom you little dream of,
Tax me with him, and I’ll swear too I hate him;
I’ll thrust 'em both together in one oath,
And send 'em to some pair of waiting-women,
To solder up their credits.
LAC. Prithee, what’s he?
Another yet? for laughter’ sake, discover him.
AUR. The governor of the fort.
LAC. That old dried neat’s tongue!
AUR. A gentleman after my father’s relish.

_Enter_ AURELIA’S _Father and Governor_.

FATH. By your kind favours, gentlemen.
AUR. O, my father!
We’re both betray’d.
LAC. Peace; you may prove too fearful.—
To whom your business, sir?
FATH. To the lord cardinal,
If it would please yourself, or that young gentleman,
To grace me with admittance.
LAC. I will see, sir;
The gentleman’s a stranger, new come o’er;
He understands you not.—
_Loff tro veen, tantumbro, hoff tufftee locumber shaw._
AUR. _Quisquimken, sapadlaman, fool-urchin old astrata._
FATH. Nay, and[876] that be the language, we can speak
it too:
_Strumpettikin, bold harlottum, queaninisma,
whore-mongeria!_
Shame to thy sex, and sorrow to thy father!
Is this a shape for reputation
And modesty to masque in? Thou too cunning
For credulous goodness,
Did not a reverent respect and honour,
That’s due unto the sanctimonious peace
Of this lord’s house, restrain my voice and anger,
And teach it soft humility, I would lift
Both your disgraces to the height of grief
That you have rais’d in me; but to shame you
I will not cast a blemish upon virtue:
Call that your happiness, and the dearest too
That such a bold attempt could ever boast of.
We’ll see if a strong fort can hold you now.—
Take her, sir, to you.
GOV. How have I deserv’d
The strangeness of this hour?
FATH. Talk not so tamely.—
For you, sir, thank the reverence of this place,
Or your hypocrisy I’d put out of grace,
I had, i’faith; if ever I can fit you,
Expect to hear from me.
[_Exeunt Father, Governor, and_ AURELIA.

LAC. I thank you, sir;
The cough o’ th’ lungs requite you! I could curse him
Into diseases by whole dozens now;
But one’s enough to beggar him, if he light
Upon a wise physician. ’Tis a labour
To keep those little wits I have about me.
Still did I dream that villain would betray her:
I’ll never trust slave with a parboil’d nose again.
I must devise some trick t’ excuse her absence
Now to my uncle too; there is no mischief
But brings one villan[y] or other still
Even close at heels on’t. I am pain’d at heart;
If ever there were hope of me to die
For love, ’tis now; I never felt such gripings:
If I can ’scape this climacterical year,
Women ne’er trust me, though you hear me swear.
Kept with him in the fort? why, there’s no hope
Of ever meeting now, my way’s not thither;
Love bless us with some means to get together,
And I’ll pay all the old reckonings. [_Exit._

SCENE III.

_Street before the Duchess’s House._

_Enter on a balcony[877] Duchess and_ CELIA.

DUCH. What a contented rest rewards my mind
For faithfulness! I give it constancy,
And it returns me peace. How happily
Might woman live, methinks, confin’d within
The knowledge of one husband!
What comes of more rather proclaims desire
Prince of affections than religious love,
Brings frailty and our weakness into question
'Mongst our male enemies, makes widows’ tears
Rather the cup of laughter than of pity:
What credit can our sorrows have with men,
When in some months’ space they turn light agen,[878]
Feast, dance, and go in colours? If my vow
Were yet to make, I would not sleep without it,
Or make a faith as perfect to myself
In resolution, as a vow would come to,
And do as much right so to constancy
As strictness could require; for ’tis our goodness
And not our strength that does it. I am arm’d now
'Gainst all deserts in man, be’t valour, wisdom,
Courtesy, comeliness, nay, truth itself,
Which seldom keeps him company. I commend
The virtues highly, as I do an instrument
When the case hangs by th’ wall; but man himself
Never comes near my heart.

_Enter Cardinal above._

CAR. The blessing of perfection to your thoughts, lady!
For I’m resolv’d[879] they’re good ones.
DUCH. Honour of greatness,
Friend to my vow, and father to my fame,
Welcome as peace to temples!
CAR. I bring war.
DUCH. How, sir?
CAR. A harder fight: if now you conquer,
You crown my praises double.
DUCH. What’s your aim, sir?
CAR. T’ astonish sin and all her tempting evils,
And make your goodness shine more glorious.
When your fair noble vow shew’d you the way
To excellence in virtue, to keep back
The fears that might discourage you at first,
Pitying your strength, it shew’d you not the worst:
’Tis not enough for tapers to burn bright,
But to be seen, so to lend others light,
Yet not impair themselves, their flame as pure
As when it shin’d in secret; so, t’ abide
Temptations is the soul’s flame truly tried.
I’ve an ambition, but a virtuous one;
I’d have nothing want to your perfection.
DUCH. Is there a doubt found yet? is it so hard
For woman to recover, with all diligence,
And a true fasting faith from sensual pleasure,
What many of her sex have[880] so long lost?
Can you believe that any sight of man,
Held he the worth of millions in one spirit,
Had power to alter me?
CAR. No; there’s my hope,
My credit, and my triumph.
DUCH. I’ll no more
Keep strictly private, since the glory on’t
Is but a virtue question’d; I’ll come forth
And shew myself to all; the world shall witness,
That, like the sun, my constancy can look
On earth’s corruptions, and shine clear itself.
CAR. Hold conquest now, and I have all my wishes.
[_Cornets, and a shout within._
DUCH. The meaning of that sudden shout, my lord?
CAR. Signor Andrugio, general of the field,
Successful in his fortunes, is arriv’d,
And met by all the gallant hopes of Milan,
Welcom’d with laurel-wreaths and hymns of praises:
Vouchsafe but you to give him the first grace, madam,
Of your so long-hid presence, he has then
All honours that can bless victorious man.
DUCH. You shall prevail, grave sir.
[_Exit Cardinal above._

_Enter_ ANDRUGIO, _attended by the nobility, senators,
and masquers_.

_Song._

_Laurel is a victor’s due,
I give it you,
I give it you;
Thy name with praise,
Thy brow with bays
We circle round:
All men rejoice
With cheerful voice,
To see thee like a conqueror crown’d._
[_A Cupid descending, sings_:
_I am a little conqueror too;
For wreaths of bays
There’s arms of cross,[881]
And that’s my due:
I give the flaming heart,
It is my crest;
And by the mother’s side,
The weeping eye,
The sighing breast.
It is not power in you, fair beauties;
If I command love, ’tis your duties._ [_Ascends._
[_During the preceding songs_ ANDRUGIO _peruses
a letter delivered to him by a Lord: the
masque then closes with the following_

_Song._

_Welcome, welcome, son of fame,
Honour triumphs in thy name!_ [_Exeunt all except
Lord._

LORD. Alas, poor gentleman! I brought him news
That like a cloud spread over all his glories:
When he miss’d her whom his eye greedily sought for,
His welcome seem’d so poor, he took no joy in’t;
But when he found her by her father forc’d
To the old governor’s love, and kept so strictly,
A coldness strook his heart. There is no state
So firmly happy but feels envy’s might.
I know Lactantio, nephew to the cardinal,
Hates him as deeply as a rich man death;
And yet his welcome shew’d as fair and friendly
As his that wore the truest love to him;
When in his wishes he could drink his blood,
And make his heart the sweetness of his food. [_Exit._
CELIA. Madam! madam!
DUCH. Beshrew thy heart, dost thou not see me busy?
You shew your manners!
CELIA. In the name of goodness,
What ails my lady?
DUCH. I confess I’m mortal;
There’s no defending on’t; ’tis cruel flattery
To make a lady believe otherwise.
Is not this flesh? can you drive heat from fire?
So may you love from this; for love and death
Are brothers in this kingdom, only death
Comes by the mother’s side, and that’s the surest.
That general is wondrous fortunate,
Has won another field since, and a victory
That credits all the rest; he may more boast on’t
Than of a thousand conquests. I am lost,
Utterly lost! where are my women now?
Alas, what help’s in them, what strength have they?
I call to a weak guard when I call them;
In rescuing me they’d be themselves o’ercome:
When I, that profess’d war, am overthrown,
What hope’s in them, then, that ne’er stirr’d from home?
My faith is gone for ever;
My reputation with the cardinal,
My fame, my praise, my liberty, my peace,
Chang’d for a restless passion: O hard spite,
To lose my seven years’ victory at one sight!
[_Exeunt._

SCENE IV.

LACTANTIO’S _lodging in the Cardinal’s mansion_.

_Enter_ DONDOLO, _and Page[882] carrying a shirt_.

PAGE. I prithee, Dondolo, take this shirt and air it a
little against my master rises; I had rather do any
thing than do’t, i’faith. DON. O monstrous, horrible,
terrible, intolerable! are not you big enough to air a
shirt? were it a smock now, you liquorish page, you’d be
hanged ere you’d part from’t. If thou dost not prove as
arrant a smell-smock as any the town affords in a
term-time, I’ll lose my judgment in wenching.
PAGE. Pish; here, Dondolo, prithee, take it.
DON. It’s no more but up and ride with you then! all
my generation were beadles and officers, and do you
think I’m so easily entreated? you shall find a harder
piece of work, boy, than you imagine, to get any thing
from my hands; I will not disgenerate so much from the
nature of my kindred; you must bribe me one way or
other, if you look to have any thing done, or else you
may do’t yourself: ’twas just my father’s humour when
he bore office. You know my mind, page; the song! the
song! I must either have the song you sung to my
master last night when he went to bed, or I’ll not do
a stitch of service for you from one week’s end to the
other. As I am a gentleman, you shall brush cloaks,
make clean spurs, nay, pull off strait boots, although
in the tugging you chance to fall and hazard the
breaking of your little buttocks; I’ll take no more
pity of your marrow-bones than a butcher’s dog of a
rump of beef; nay, ka me, ka thee;[883] if you will
ease the melancholy of my mind with singing, I will
deliver you from the calamity of boots-haling.
PAGE. Alas, you know I cannot sing!
DON. Take heed; you may speak at such an hour that your
voice may be clean taken away from you: I have known
many a good gentlewoman say so much as you say now, and
have presently gone to bed and lay speechless: ’tis not
good to jest, as old Chaucer was wont to say, that broad
famous English poet. Cannot you sing, say you? O that a
boy should so keep cut with[884] his mother, and be
given to dissembling!
PAGE. Faith, to your knowledge in’t, ill may seem well;
But as I hope in comforts, I’ve no skill.
DON. A pox of skill! give me plain simple cunning: why
should not singing be as well got without skill as the
getting of children? You shall have the arrantest fool
do as much there as the wisest coxcomb of 'em all, let
'em have all the help of doctors put to 'em, both
the directions of physicians, and the erections of
pothecaries; you shall have a plain hobnailed country
fellow, marrying some dairy-wench, tumble out two of a
year, and sometimes three, byrlady,[885] as the crop
falls out; and your nice paling physicking gentlefolks
some one in nine years, and hardly then a whole one as
it should be; the wanting of some apricock or something
loses a member on him, or quite spoils it. Come, will
you sing, that I may warm the shirt? by this light, he
shall put it on cold for me else.
PAGE. A song or two I learnt with hearing gentlewomen
practise themselves.
DON. Come, you are so modest now, ’tis pity that
thou wast ever bred to be thrust through a pair of
canions;[887] thou wouldst have made a pretty foolish
waiting-woman but for one thing. Wilt sing?
PAGE. As well as I can, Dondolo.
DON. Give me the shirt then, I’ll warm’t as well[’s] I
can too.
Why, look, you whoreson coxcomb, this is a smock!
PAGE. No, ’tis my master’s shirt.
DON. Why, that’s true too;
Who knows not that? why, ’tis the fashion, fool;
All your young gallants[888] here of late wear smocks,
Those without beards especially.
PAGE. Why, what’s the reason, sir?
DON. Marry, very great reason in’t: a young gallant
lying a-bed with his wench, if the constable should
chance to come up and search, being both in smocks,
they’d be taken for sisters, and I hope a constable dare
go no further; and as for the knowing of their heads,
that’s well enough too, for I know many young gentlemen
wear longer hair than their mistresses.
PAGE. ’Tis a hot world the whilst.
DON. Nay, that’s most certain; and a most witty age of a
bald one, for all languages; you’ve many daughters so
well brought up, they speak French naturally at fifteen,
and they are turned to the Spanish and Italian half a
year after.
PAGE. That’s like learning the grammar first, and the
accidence after, they go backward so.
DON. The fitter for th’ Italian: thou’st no wit, boy;
Hadst had a tutor, he’d have taught thee that.
Come, come, that I may be gone, boy!
PAGE [_sings_].
_Cupid is Venus’[889] only joy,
But he is a wanton boy,
A very, very wanton boy;
He shoots at ladies’ naked breasts,
He is the cause of most men’s crests,
I mean upon the forehead,
Invisible, but horrid;_
_Of the short velvet mask he was deviser,
That wives may kiss, the husbands ne’er the wiser;
'Twas he first thought upon the way
To keep a lady’s lips in play._
DON. O rich, ravishing, rare, and enticing! Well, go
thy ways for as sweet a breasted page[890] as ever lay
at his master’s feet in a truckle-bed.
PAGE. You’ll hie you in straight, Dondolo?
DON. I’ll not miss you. [_Exit Page._
This smockified shirt, or shirted smock,
I will go toast. Let me see what’s a’clock:
I must to th’ castle straight to see his love,
Either by hook or crook: my master storming
Sent me last night, but I’ll be gone this morning.
[_Exit._