FAULKNER.
No, my lord; lost all that ever God sent me.
MORE.
God sent thee into the world as thou art now,
With a short hair. How quickly are three years
Run out of Newgate!
FAULKNER. I think so, my lord; for there was but a hair’s length between my going thither and so long time.
MORE.
Because I see some grace in thee, go free.—
Discharge him, fellows.—Farewell, Master Morris.—
Thy head is for thy shoulders now more fit;
Thou hast less hair upon it, but more wit.
[Exit.]
MORRIS.
Did not I tell thee always of these locks?
FAULKNER. And the locks were on again, all the goldsmiths in Cheapside should not pick them open. ’Sheart, if my hair stand not on end when I look for my face in a glass, I am a polecat. Here’s a lousy jest! but, if I notch not that rogue Tom barber, that makes me look thus like a Brownist, hang me! I’ll be worse to the nitticall knave than ten tooth drawings. Here’s a head, with a pox!
MORRIS.
What ails thou? art thou mad now?
FAULKNER. Mad now! nails, if loss of hair cannot mad a man, what can? I am deposed, my crown is taken from me. More had been better a scoured Moreditch than a notched me thus: does he begin sheepshearing with Jack Faulkner?
MORRIS.
Nay, and you feed this vein, sir, fare you well.