Mat. The only royal fellow, he’s bounteous as the Indies, what’s that he said to thee, Bellafront?
Bell. Nothing.
Mat. I prithee, good girl?
Bell. Why, I tell you, nothing.
Mat. Nothing? it’s well: tricks! that I must be beholden to a scald hot-livered goatish gallant, to stand with my cap in my hand, and vail bonnet, when I ha’ spread as lofty sails as himself. Would I had been hanged. Nothing? Pacheco, brush my cloak.
Orl. Where is’t, sir?
Mat. Come, we’ll fly high.
Nothing? There is a whore still in thy eye. [Exit.
Orl. My twenty pounds fly high, O wretched woman!
This varlet’s able to make Lucrece common. [Aside.
How now, mistress? has my master dyed you into this sad colour?
Bell. Fellow, begone I pray thee; if thy tongue
Itch after talk so much, seek out thy master.
Thou’rt a fit instrument for him.
Orl. Zounds, I hope he will not play upon me!