Pietro. Dream! what dreamest? 90
Mal. Why, methinks I see that signior pawn his footcloth,[364] that metreza[365] her plate: this madam takes physic, that t’other monsieur may minister to her: here is a pander jewelled; there is[366] a fellow in shift of satin this day, that could not shift a shirt t’other night: here a Paris supports that Helen; there’s a Lady Guinever bears up that Sir Lancelot: dreams, dreams, visions, fantasies, chimeras, imaginations, tricks, conceits!—[To Prepasso.]
Sir Tristram Trimtram, come aloft,[367] Jack-an-apes, with a whim-wham: here’s a knight of the land of Catito shall play at trap with any page in Europe; do the sword-dance with any morris-dancer in Christendom; ride at the ring[368] till the fin[369] of his eyes look as blue as the welkin; and run the wildgoose-chase even with Pompey the Huge.[370] 105
Pietro. You run!
Mal. To the devil.—Now, signior Guerrino, that thou from a most pitied prisoner shouldst grow a most loathed flatterer!—Alas, poor Celso, thy star’s oppressed: thou art an honest lord: ’tis pity. 110
Equato. Is’t pity?
Mal. Ay, marry is’t, philosophical Equato; and ’tis pity that thou, being so excellent a scholar by art, should be so ridiculous a fool by nature.—I have a thing to tell you, duke: bid ’em avaunt, bid ’em avaunt.
Pietro. Leave us, leave us.
[Exeunt all except Pietro and Malevole.
Now, sir, what is’t?