Fill out wine to my little finger.
With my heart, i’faith. [Drinks.
Lod. Thanks, good Matheo.
To your own sweet self. [Drinks.
Re-enter Orlando.
Orl. All the brokers’ hearts, sir, are made of flint. I can with all my knocking strike but six sparks of fire out of them; here’s six ducats, if you’ll take them.
Mat. Give me them! [Taking money.] An evil conscience gnaw them all! moths and plagues hang upon their lousy wardrobes!
Lod. Is this your man, Matheo?
Mat. An old serving-man.
Orl. You may give me t’other half too, sir, that’s the beggar.
Lod. What hast there,—gold?