Ador. Pray you, sir, what is he?
Ast. No gentleman, yet a lord. He hath some drops
Of the king's blood running in his veins, derived
Some ten degrees off. His revenue lies
In a narrow compass, the king's ear; and yields him
Every hour a fruitful harvest. Men may talk
Of three crops in a year in the Fortunate Islands,
Or profit made by wool; but, while there are suitors,
His sheepshearing, nay, shaving to the quick,
Is in every quarter of the moon, and constant.
In the time of trussing a point,[135] he can undo,
Or make a man: his play or recreation,
Is to raise this up, or pull down that; and, though
He never yet took orders, makes more bishops
In Sicily, than the pope himself.
Enter Bertoldo, Gasparo, Antonio, and a Servant.
Ador. Most strange!
Ast. The presence fills. He in the Malta habit[136]
Is the king's natural brother.
Ador. I understand you.
Bert. With this jewel
Presented to Camiola, prepare,
This night, a visit for me. [Exit Servant.] I shall have
Your company, gallants, I perceive, if that
The king will hear of war.
Ant. You are, sir,
A knight of Malta, and, as I have heard,
Have served against the Turk.
Bert. 'Tis true.
Ant. Pray you, show us
The difference between the city valour,
And service in the field.