FAULKNER.
Why, farewell, frost. I’ll go hang myself out for the Poll Head.
Make a Saracen of Jack?
MORRIS.
Thou desperate knave! for that I see the devil
Wholly gets hold of thee—
FAULKNER.
The devil’s a damned rascal.
MORRIS.
I charge thee, wait on me no more; no more
Call me thy master.
FAULKNER.
Why, then, a word, Master Morris.
MORRIS.
I’ll hear no words, sir; fare you well.
FAULKNER.
’Sblood, farewell.
MORRIS.
Why dost thou follow me?
FAULKNER. Because I’m an ass. Do you set your shavers upon me, and then cast me off? must I condole? have the Fates played the fools? am I their cut? now the poor sconce is taken, must Jack march with bag and baggage?
[Weeps.]