Ped. He hunts this morning Gentlemen,
And dines i'th' fields: the Court is all in readiness.
Lis. Pedro, did you send for this Tailor? or you Moncado?
This light French Demi-launce that follows us.
Ped. No, I assure ye on my word, I am guiltless,
I owe him too much to be inward with him.
Mon. I am not quit I am sure: there is a reckoning
Of some four scarlet cloaks, and two lac'd suits
Hangs on the file still, like a fearful Comet
Makes me keep off.
Lis. I am in too Gentlemen,
I thank his faith, for a matter of three hundred.
Ter. And I for two, what a devil makes he this way?
I do not love to see my sins before me.
Ped. 'Tis the vacation, and these things break out
To see the Court, and glory in their debtors.
Ter. What do you call him for? I never love
To remember their names that I owe money to,
'Tis not gentile; I shun 'em like the plague ever.
Lis. His name's Vertigo: hold your heads, and wonder,
A French-man, and a founder of new Fashions:
The revolutions of all shapes and habits
Run madding through his brains. [Enter Vertigo.
Mon. He is very brave.