MATHEO

Come, you're mad. The body, as the Duke spoke very wisely, is gone to be wormd. Oh my Lord? You're wrong: i'th open street? you see she's dead. As you regard your honour. Or if you lov'de his living, spare her now. I give you physic noble friend, not wounds, Speak no more sentences, my good lord, but slip hence; you see they are but fits, isle rule him I warrant you. I, so, tread gingerly, your Grace is here somewhat too long alrea die. Sbloud the jest were now, if having taken some knocks o'th pate already, he should get lose again, and Like a mad Ox, toss my new black cloaks into the kennel. I must hu mour his lordship: my lord Hipolito, is it in your stomach to go to dinner? How your love looks? worse than a scarecrow, wrestle not with me: the great fellow gives the fallen for a ducat. Pray do so, leave your self behind your self, and go whither you will. Sfoot, do you long to have base roags that maintain a saint Anthony's fire in their noses (by nothing but two penny Ale) make ballads of you? if the Duke had but so much mettle in him, as is in a cobblers awl, he would would been a vexed thing: he and his train had blown you up, but that their powlder haz taken the wet of cowards: yowl bleed three pot tles of Aligant, by this light, if you follow em, and then we shall have a hold made in a wrong place, to have Surgeons roll thee up Like a baby in swaddling clouts. Yea marry, this is and easy question: why to day is, let me see, Thursday. Heeres a coil for a dead commodity, sfoot woe men when they are alive are but dead commodities, for you shall have one woman lie upon many men's hands. And thats the most villainous day of all the week to die in: and she was well, and eat a mess of water-gruel on monday morning. Oh yes my Lord, so soon: why I would known them, that at dinner have been aswell, and had so much health, that they were glad to pledge it, yet before three a clock have been found dead drunk. Strange feeders they are indeed my lord, and Like your jester or young Courtier, will enter upon any men tren cher without bidding. Yowl do all these good works now every mon day, because it is so bade: but I hope upon tuesday morning I shall take you with a wench. If you have this strange monster, Honesty, in your belly, why so Iig-makers and chroniclers shall pick some thing out of you: but and I smell not you and a bawdy house out within these ten days, let my nose be as big as and En glish bag-pudding: I'll follow your lordship, though it be to the place aforenamed. Exeunt. Save you Gallants, signior Fluello, exceedingly well met, as I may say. You, goody Punk, subandi Cockatrice, Oh yare a sweet whore of your promise, are you not think you? how well you came to supper to us last night: mew, a whore & break her word! nay you may blush, & hold down your head at it well enough: Sfoot, ask these gallants if we stayed not till we were as hungry as Sergeants. Pox on her, let her alone. Sfoot, she gulls em the best: this is always her fashion, when she would be rid of any come pany that she cares not for, to enjoy mine alone. Fluello, spurn your hounds when they fyste, you shall not spurn my Punk, I can tell you my blood is vexed. You're a Slave, will that serve turn? Spurn my sweet Varlet! I, I, any where, saving at Church: pray take heed we meet not there. Would, would, thou dost gull em so rarely, so naturally: if I did not think thou hadst been in earnest: thou art a sweet Rogue for't ifayth. How's this? Is't possible, to be impossible, and honest whore! I have herd many honest wenches turn Stru npets with a wet finger; but for a Harlot to turn honest, is one of Her cules labours: It was more easy for him in one night to make fifty queans, then to make one of them honest a gen in fifty years: come, I hope thou dost but jest. God buy thee. How, marry with a Punk, a Cockatrice, a Har lot? marry foh, I'll be burned thorough the nose first. I'll hear no more of this: this ground upon, Th'art damned for altering thy Religion. Exit. I well said lock us into some little room by our selves that we may be mad for and hour or two. How! no noise! do you know where you are: sfoot amongst all the madcaps in Milan : so that to throw the house out at window will be the better, & no man will suspect that we lurk here to steal mutton: the more sober we are, the more scurvy 'tis. And though the Friar tell us, that here we are safest, 'me not of his mind, for if those lay here that had lost there money, none would ever look after them, but hear are none but those that have lost their wits, oh that if hue and cry be made, hither theile come, and my reason is, because none goes to be married till he be stark mad. Why whats the matter. Pox on em, & there be no faith in men, if a man shall not believe oaths: he took bred and salt by this light, that he would never open his lips. No words I pray Fluello, for it stands us upon. My punk turned mad whore, as all her fellows are? Oh your wit drops. Oh rare trick: You would learned one mad point of Arithmaticke. Son, by yonder Sun. Yes lamb. Out you mad Ass away. I think I rifled her of some such paltry Jewel. How, marry her my Lord? sfoot marry a mad-wo man: let a man get the tamest wife he can come by, sheele be mad enough afterwards, do what he can. I cannot tell, I may choose. Well then, when her wits stand in their right place, Cony-catched, gulled, must I sail in your flyboat, Because I helped to rear your maine-mast first: Plague found you fort, - 'tis well. The Cuckolds stamp goes currant in all Nations, Some men have horns given them at their creations, If I be one of those, why so: its better To take a common wench, and make her good, Than one that simpers and at first, will scarce Be tempted forth over the threshold door, Yet in one sevennight ounds, turns arrant whore, Come wench, thou shalt be mine, give me thy gols, Weel talk of legs hereafter: see my Lord, God give us joy. God send me good luck. And how fares my little pretty Mistress? Nay, sweet Bellafronte, for a little Pigs wash. Gods so a stool a stool, if you love me Mistress en tertaine this Gentleman respectively, & bid him welcome. Thou shalt would i'faith mistress: how now signiors? what? whispering? did not I lay a wager I should take you within seven days in a house of vanity. How do you Like my mistress? Sfoot you shall not leave us. Will you call for me half and hour hence here? Perhaps? fah! I know you can swear to me you will, Its Count Hipolito, the brave Count. He's so malcontent! sirrah Bellafronta, & you be ho nest gallants, lets sup together, and have the count with us: thou shalt fit at the upper end punk. Kings truce: come, isle bestow the supper to have him but laugh. All this is for a woman. Pah. Byth Lord I will not, must not faith mistress: is't a match sirs? his night, at Th'antilop: I, for the best wine, and good boys. Cannot? bith lord you shall. You're the waspishest Ape. Roger, put your miss tress in mind to sup with us on friday next: you're best come Like a madwoman without a band in your waistcoat, & the linings of your kirtle outward, Like every common hackney that steals out at the back gate of her sweet knights lodging I, I, chop em up and away. Zounds! Sfoot he damned himself to the pit of hell if he spoke ont again.