Bell. I ha’ no money.
Mat. ’Sblood, nor I.—What wine love you, signor?
Lod. Here! (Offering money,) or I’ll not stay, I protest; trouble the gentlewoman too much? [Gives money to Bellafront, who goes out.
And what news flies abroad, Matheo?
Mat. Troth, none. Oh signor, we ha’ been merry in our days.
Lod. And no doubt shall again.
The divine powers never shoot darts at men
Mortal, to kill them.
Mat. You say true.
Lod. Why should we grieve at want? Say the world made thee
Her minion, that thy head lay in her lap,
And that she danced thee on her wanton knee,
She could but give thee a whole world: that’s all,
And that all’s nothing; the world’s greatest part
Cannot fill up one corner of thy heart.
Say three corners were all filled, alas!
Of what art thou possessed, a thin blown glass:
Such as is by boys puffed into the air.
Were twenty kingdoms thine, thou’dst live in care:
Thou couldst not sleep the better, nor live longer,
Nor merrier be, nor healthfuller, nor stronger.
If, then, thou want’st, thus make that want thy pleasure,
No man wants all things, nor has all in measure.
Mat. I am the most wretched fellow: sure some left-handed priest hath christened me, I am so unlucky; I am never out of one puddle or another; still falling.
Re-enter Bellafront with wine.