TRYGAEUS. What! won't the crests go any more, friend?
CREST-MAKER. You have killed my business, my livelihood, and that of this poor lance-maker too.
TRYGAEUS. Come, come, what are you asking for these two crests?
CREST-MAKER. What do you bid for them?
TRYGAEUS. What do I bid? Oh! I am ashamed to say. Still, as the clasp is of good workmanship, I would give two, even three measures of dried figs; I could use 'em for dusting the table.
CREST-MAKER. All right, tell them to bring me the dried figs; 'tis always better than nothing.
TRYGAEUS. Take them away, be off with your crests and get you gone; they are moulting, they are losing all their hair; I would not give a single fig for them.
A BREASTPLATE-MAKER. Good gods, what am I going to do with this fine ten-minae breast-plate, which is so splendidly made?
TRYGAEUS. Oh, you will lose nothing over it.
BREASTPLATE-MAKER. I will sell it you at cost price.