Of a fat pregnant sow, newly cut off,
Drest with an exquisite and poignant sauce;
For which, I’ll say unto my cook, There’s gold;
Go forth, and be a knight.
Face: Sir, I’ll go look
A little, how it heightens. (Exit)
Mammon: Do.—My shirts
I’ll have of taffeta-sarsnet, soft and light
As cobwebs; and for all my other raiment,
It shall be such as might provoke the Persian,