Mat. What sayest, what sayest? O brave fresh air! a pox on these grates and gingling of keys, and rattling of iron. I’ll bear up, I’ll fly high, wench, hang toff.
Bell. Matheo, prithee, make thy prison thy glass,
And in it view the wrinkles, and the scars,
By which thou wert disfigured; viewing them, mend them.
Mat. I’ll go visit all the mad rogues now, and the good roaring boys.[250]
Bell. Thou dost not hear me?
Mat. Yes, faith, do I.
Bell. Thou has been in the hands of misery, and ta’en strong physic; prithee now be sound.
Mat. Yes. ’Sfoot, I wonder how the inside of a tavern looks now. Oh, when shall I bizzle, bizzle?[251]
Bell. Nay, see, thou’rt thirsty still for poison! Come, I will not have thee swagger.
Mat. Honest ape’s face!