Jonson:
Haven’t you any conscience?
Chettle:
No, bully boy, no: I’ve never been rich enough to keep a conscience: never! With us poor devils conscience is like a court-suit put by for state occasions and then used as little as may be: we pawn it sometimes for a dinner. Conscience, look ye, is a jade that still cries “No, no!” and never helps with brave encouragement: a good defender of the rich; but a born foe of the poor, laming enterprise. No, no, lad, no conscience for me; a bad one’s worse than a belly-ache, and with a good one I’d starve. Conscience is like a shrewish wife (have I touched ye there, Ben?), as long as you listen to her she makes you miserable, and when you no longer care for her, why should you keep her? To conclude: Conscience, boys, is a bogey to frighten the feeble from frolic. Ha ha!
Jonson:
But as a man, aren’t you ashamed to cheat a poor woman?
Chettle:
Have at ye again, lad! In this world we all cheat and are cheated. You cheat the groundlings and orange-girls out of their crosses with a bad play when they’ve paid to hear a good ’un, and I cheat by giving soft words instead of coins. And the conclusion! The girls are angry with you, while my hostess is in love with me. True virtue is good-humour, Ben: and a pleasant smile’s more than all the commandments.
Fletcher:
Chettle’s putting up for a saint.