Diph. I should know
These faces: they are our slaves.
Timag. The mystery, rascals!
Open the ports, and play not with an anger
That will consume you.
Timol. This is above wonder.
Archid. Our bondmen stand against us!
Grac. Some such things
We were in man's remembrance. The slaves are turn'd
Lords of the town, or so—nay, be not angry:
Perhaps, upon good terms, giving security
You will be quiet men, we may allow you
Some lodgings in our garrets or outhouses:
Your great looks cannot carry it.
Cimb. The truth is,
We have been bold to rifle your rich chests,
Been busy with your wardrobes.
Timag. Can we endure this?
Leost. O my Cleora!
Grac. A caudle for the gentleman;
He'll die o' the pip else.
Timag. Scorn'd too! are you turn'd stone?
Hold parley with our bondmen! force our entrance,
Then, villains, expect——