Bell. ’Tis that sharpened an axe to cut thy throat.
Good love, I would not have thee sell thy substance
And time, worth all, in those damned shops of hell;
Those dicing houses, that stand never well,
But when they stand most ill; that four-squared sin
Has almost lodged us in the beggar’s inn.
Besides, to speak which even my soul does grieve,
A sort of ravens have hung upon thy sleeve,
And fed upon thee: good Mat, if you please,
Scorn to spread wing amongst so base as these;
By them thy fame is speckled, yet it shows
Clear amongst them; so crows are fair with crows.
Custom in sin, gives sin a lovely dye;
Blackness in Moors is no deformity.
Mat. Bellafront, Bellafront, I protest to thee, I swear, as I hope for my soul, I will turn over a new leaf. The prison I confess has bit me; the best man that sails in such a ship, may be lousy. [Knocking within.
Bell. One knocks at door.
Mat. I’ll be the porter: they shall see a jail cannot hold a brave spirit, I’ll fly high. [Exit.
Bell. How wild is his behaviour! Oh, I fear
He’s spoiled by prison, he’s half damned comes there,
But I must sit all storms: when a full sail
His fortunes spread, he loved me: being now poor,
I’ll beg for him, and no wife can do more.
Re-enter Matheo, with Orlando disguised as a Serving-man.
Mat. Come in, pray! would you speak with me, sir?
Orl. Is your name Signor Matheo?
Mat. My name is Signor Matheo.
Orl. Is this gentlewoman your wife, sir?