Wid. Dost thou want money? Thou art worthy to be tattered! Hast thou no wit, now thy money's gone?
Steph. 'Tis all the portion I have. I have nothing to maintain me but my wit; my money is too little, I'm sure.
Wid. I cannot believe thy wit's more than thy money—a fellow so well-limbed, so able to do good service, and want?
Steph. Why, mistress, my shoulders were not made for a frock and a basket, nor a coal-sack; no, nor my hands to turn a trencher at a table's side.
Wid. I like that resolution well; but how comes it then that thy wit leaves thy body unfurnished? Thou art very poor?
Steph. The fortune of the dice, you see.
Wid. They are the only wizards, I confess,
The only fortune-tellers; but he that goes
To seek his fortune from them must never hope
To have a good destiny allotted him.
Yet it is not the course that I dislike in thee,
But that thou canst not supply that course,
And outcross them that cross thee; were I as thou art—
Steph. You'd be as beggarly as I am.
Wid. I'll be hanged first.