Enter the Fool, and Podrano.
Pod. Who are all these that crowd about the Court, Fool?
Those strange new faces?
Fool. They are Suitors, Coxcomb,
Dainty fine Suitors to the Widow Lady,
Thou hadst best make one of 'em, thou wilt be hang'd as handsomly
At the Months end, and as much joy follow'd,
And 'twere to morrow; as many mourning Bawds for thee,
And holy Nuns, whose vestal fire ne'r vanishes,
In sackcloth Smocks, as if thou wert Heir apparent
To all the impious Suburbs, and the sink-holes.
Pod. Out you base Rogue.
Fool. Why dost abuse thy self?
Thou art to blame, I take thee for a Gentleman,
But why does not thy Lord and Master marry her?
Pod. Why, she is his Sister.
Fool. 'Tis the better, Fool,
He may make bold with his own flesh and blood,
For o' my conscience there's none else will trust him;
Then he may pleasure the King at a dead pinch too,
Without a Mephestophilus, such as thou art,
And ingross the Royal disease like a true Subject.
Pod. Thou wilt be whipt.
Fool. I am sure thou wilt be hang'd,
I have lost a Ducket else, which I would be loth to venture
Without certainty. They appear. [Suitors pass by.
Pod. Why these are Rascals.