Sanaz. You widgeon,
You are to make all speed; think not of pomp.
Giov. Follow for your instructions, sirrah.
Cal. I have
One suit to you, my good lord.
Cal. That you would give me
A subtile court-charm, to defend me from
The infectious air of the country.
Giov. What's the reason?
Cal. Why, as this court-air taught me knavish wit,
By which I am grown rich, if that again
Should turn me fool and honest, vain hopes farewell!
For I must die a beggar.
Sanaz. Go to, sirrah,
You'll be whipt for this.
Giov. Leave fooling, and attend us. [Exeunt[81].