Sol. If't please your lordship.
San. It doth not please me,
It is indifferent: I care not what thou art.
Art thou extremely poor?
Sol. If't please your lordship.
San. No, not that neither. Why should I malign
So far thy fortune as to wish thee poor?
'Twere safer for my purse if thou wert rich;
Then all reward were base.
Sol. If't please your lordship.
San. O, no more prologue! Prythee, the first scene:
To the business, man.
Sol. Then I must tell your lordship,
I scorn that wealth makes you thus wanton, and
That wit which fools you. Did the royal favour
Shine but on you, without enlarging warmth
To any other, I in this torn outside
Should laugh at you, if insolent.
Sol. I tell thee, petulant lord, I'll cut thy throat,
Unless thou learn more honour.
San. What shall I do?