Ferd. I will throttle it. [Throws himself down on his shadow.
Mal. O, my lord, you are angry with nothing.
Ferd. You are a fool: how is't possible I should catch my shadow, unless I fall upon't? When I go to hell, I mean to carry a bribe; for, look you, good gifts evermore make way for the worst persons.
Pes. Rise, good my lord.
Ferd. I am studying the art of patience.
Pes. 'Tis a noble virtue.
Ferd. To drive six snails before me from this town to Moscow; neither use goad nor whip to them, but let them take their own time;—the patient'st man i' the world match me for an experiment;—and I'll crawl after like a sheep-biter.
Card. Force him up. [They raise him.
Ferd. Use me well, you were best. What I have done, I have done: I'll confess nothing.
Doc. Now let me come to him.—Are you mad, my lord? are you out of your princely wits?