Ap. My poverty but not my will consents.
Rom. I pray thy poverty and not thy will.
Ap. Put this in any liquid thing you will
And drink it off; and if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.
Rom. There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou may’st not sell.
I sell thee poison, thou hast sold me none.
Farewell; buy food, and get thyself in flesh.