Mal. And with that Gold
Which Don Vitelli gives, you'll walk some voyage
And leave me to my Trade; and laugh, and brag,
How you o'er-reach'd a whore, and gull'd a Lord.
Pio. You anger me extreamly: fare you well.
What should I say to be believ'd? expose me
To any hazard; or like jealous Juno
(Th' incensed step-mother of Hercules)
Design me labours most impossible,
I'll doe 'em, or die in 'em; so at last
You will believe me.
Mal. Come, we are friends: I do,
I am thine, walk in: my Lord has sent me outsides,
But thou shall have 'em, the colours are too sad:
Pio. 'Faith Mistriss, I want clothes indeed.
Mal. I have
Some Gold too, for my servant.
Pio. And I have
A better mettal for my Mistriss. [Exeunt.
Scæna Tertia.
Enter Vitelli and Alguazier, at several doors.
Alg. Undone—wit now or never help me: my Master
He will cut my throat, I am a dead Constable;
And he'll not be hang'd neither, there's the grief:
The party, Sir, is here.
Vit. What?