Mat. How now, little chick, what ailest, weeping for a handful of tailor’s shreds? pox on them, are there not silks enow at mercer’s?
Bell. I care not for gay feathers, I.
Mat. What dost care for then? why dost grieve?
Bell. Why do I grieve? A thousand sorrows strike
At one poor heart, and yet it lives. Matheo,
Thou art a gamester, prithee, throw at all,
Set all upon one cast. We kneel and pray,
And struggle for life, yet must be cast away.
Meet misery quickly then, split all, sell all,
And when thou’st sold all, spend it; but I beseech thee
Build not thy mind on me to coin thee more,
To get it wouldst thou have me play the whore?
Mat. ’Twas your profession before I married you.
Bell. Umh? it was indeed: if all men should be branded
For sins long since laid up, who could be saved?
The quarter-day’s at hand, how will you do
To pay the rent, Matheo?
Mat. Why? do as all of our occupation do against quarter-days: break up house, remove, shift your lodgings: pox a’ your quarters!
Enter Lodovico.
Lod. Where’s this gallant?