Mal. Stupid! You will then suddenly become rich, possessing both white and black stock.
Bell. Property abounding in quantity rather than of value in itself, and companions I would rather see in the neighbourhood than in my house! Order the maid to sew again the side of this shirt, and that with silk thread.
Gom. She hasn’t any.
Bell. Then with flax or with wool, or even if she pleases with hemp. Never has this maid what is necessary; of what is unnecessary she has more than enough. But you, Gomezulus, I don’t want you to be a prophet. Carry out my order and report to me. Don’t foretell what will happen. Shake the dust out of the stockings and then clean them carefully with that hard fly-brush. Give me clean socks, for these are now moist and smell of the feet. φεῦ, take them away, the smell annoys me terribly.
Gom. Do you wish an under-garment?
Bell. No, for by the light of the sun I gather that the day will be hot. But reach me that velvet doublet with the half sleeves of silken cloth, and the light tunic of British cloth with long cloth cords.
Mal. Or rather German cloth. But what is the meaning of all this, whereby you think of making yourself so extraordinarily smart, beyond your custom—especially when it is not a feast-day? And you ask also for country shoe-straps.
Bell. And you? Why have you put on your smooth silk, fresh from the tailor’s, although you have your goat’s-hair clothes and your well-worn clothes of Damascus.
Mal. I have sent them to be repaired.
Bell. I indeed rather consider ease in my clothes than ornament. These little hooks and knobs are out of their place. You always loosen them wrongly and thoughtlessly.