Mar. 'T is truth thou speak'st; but I do hate it: peace,
If heaven will snatch my sword out of my hand,
And put a rattle in it, what can I do?
He that is destin'd to be odious
In his old age, must undergo his fate.
Enter Cornelius and Nichodemus.
Corn. If you do not back me, I shall never do't.
Nich. I warrant you.
Corn. Humh, humh: Sir; my Lord, my Lord.
Mart. Hah? what's the matter?
Corn. Humh; concerning the odd fifty, my Lord, and 't please your Generality, his Worship, Sir Nichodemus.
Mar. What's here? a Pass? you would for Rome? you lubbers, doth one days laziness make ye covet home? away, ye boarish rogues; ye dogs, away.
Enter wife.
Wife. Oh, oh, oh:
How now man, are you satisfi'd?