Diego. Faith, sir, I never pain myself for love,
Or fame, or riches; nor do I pretend
To that great subtlety of sense, to feel
Before I'm hurt; and for the most part
I keep myself out of harm's way.
Don C. The definition of a philosopher!
Cor. Come, leave your fooling, sirrah. Where's your master?
Diego. The only way to leave my fooling, sir,
Is to leave my master; for, without doubt,
Whoever has but the least grain of wit
Would never serve a lover militant:
He had better wait upon a mountebank,
And be run through the body twice a week
To recommend his balsam.
Cor. This fellow is an original.
Diego. But of so ill a hand, I am not worth
The hanging up, sir, in my master's room,
Amongst the worst of your collection.
Enter Sergeants, with two Footmen and two Maid-servants.
Ser. An't please your worship, we have search'd the house
From the cellars to the garrets, and these
Are all the living cattle we can find.
Cor. Friends, take a special care of that same varlet
And the waiting-woman: we'll find a way
To make them tell the truth, I warrant you.