Cal. Peace!
I am in contemplation.
Giov. Do not you know me?
Cal. I tell thee, no; on forfeit of my place,
I must not know myself, much less my father,
But by petition; that petition lined too
With golden birds, that sing to the tune of profit,
Or I am deaf.
Giov. But you've your sense of feeling.
[Offering to strike him.
Sanaz. Nay, pray you, forbear.
Cal. I have all that's requisite
To the making up of a signior: my spruce ruff,
My hooded cloak, long stocking, and paned hose,
My case of toothpicks, and my silver fork[79];
To convey an olive neatly to my mouth;—
And, what is all in all, my pockets ring
A golden peal. O that the peasants in the country,
My quondam fellows, but saw me as I am,
How they would admire and worship me!
Giov. As they shall;
For instantly you must thither.
Cal. My grand signior,
Vouchsafe a beso las manos[80], and a cringe
Of the last edition.
Giov. You must ride post with letters
This night to Lidia.
Cal. An it please your grace,
Shall I use my coach, or footcloth mule?