Blunt. Ah, see the Inconstancy of fickle Fortune, Nicholas—A Man to day, and beaten to morrow: but take comfort, there’s many a proper fellow has been robb’d and beaten on this Highway of whoring.
Feth. Ay, Ned, thou speak’st by woful Experience—but that I should miscarry after thy wholesom Documents—but we are all mortal, as thou say’st, Ned—Would I had never crost the Ferry from Croydon; a few such Nights as these wou’d learn a Man Experience enough to be a Wizard, if he have but the ill luck to escape hanging.
Blunt. ’Dsheartlikins, I wonder in what Country our kinder Stars rule: In England plunder’d, sequester’d, imprison’d and banish’d; in France, starv’d, walking like the Sign of the naked Boy, with [Plymouth Cloaks] in our Hands; in Italy and Spain robb’d, beaten, and thrown out at Windows.
Feth. Well, how happy am I, in having so true a Friend to condole me in Affliction— [Weeps.] I am oblig’d to Seignior Harlequin too, for bringing me hither to the Mountebank’s, where I shall not only conceal this Catastrophe from those fortunate Rogues our Comrades, but procure a little [Album Græcum] for my Backside. Come, Seignior, my Clothes—but, Seignior—[un Portavera Poco] palanca. [Dresses himself.
Harl. Seignior.
Feth. Entende vos Signoria Englesa?
Harl. Em Poco, em Poco, Seignior.
Feth. Per quelq arts, did your Seigniorship escape Cudgeling?
Harl. La art de transformatio.
Feth. Transformatio—Why, wert thou not born a Man?