Groom. You'll not forget it either, business bug!
Your discounts, claims, commissions, premiums—ha!
My unjust steward, we must cork it in,
This honest indignation, righteous bile,
The rancour lacing all our thoughts, or else,
By rent and vent, the lining of our pokes,
Like treacherous entrails, Judas' viscera
To wit, may fundamentally escape,
And leave us poorer than we were before.
Go down—to the box-office!
Abbot. Thank the lord, Sir Tristram!
[Enter Sir Tristram Sumner.]
'Twas not my fault, at all; I did my best.
They treated him; he treated them: the wine's
Above the tide-mark, and the fat in the fire.
Sir T. Orchard?
Orchard. Oh, very well, Sir Tristram! Off
I go. Send for me if you want me: none
Shall say that Silas Orchard overstayed
His welcome.
[Goes out.]
Sir T. Send a line to Orchard's rooms:
See that the messenger is there before him:
No man in England can play the part like him.
[Abbot and Salerne, etc., go out.]
Now what's the matter, Warwick?
Groom. This gutted play!
You've cut the very things I want to say.
Here in my first scene comes your pruning-hook,
Your harvester, and shears my poppied patch:—
"Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl":—
Why man, it's poetry: I want to say it.
Then here——