Mat. A sort of rascals are in my debt, God knows what, and they feed me with bits, with crumbs, a pox choke them.
Lod. A word, Matheo; be not angry with me;
Believe it that I know the touch of time,
And can part copper though it be gilded o’er,
From the true gold: the sails which thou dost spread,
Would show well if they were not borrowèd.
The sound of thy low fortunes drew me hither,
I give my self unto thee; prithee, use me,
I will bestow on you a suit of satin,
And all things else to fit a gentleman,
Because I love you.
Mat. Thanks, good, noble knight!
Lod. Call on me when you please; till then farewell. [Exit.
Mat. Hast angled? hast cut up this fresh salmon?
Bell. Wouldst have me be so base?
Mat. It’s base to steal, its base to be a whore:
Thou’lt be more base, I’ll make thee keep a door.[271] [Exit.
Orl. I hope he will not sneak away with all the money, will he?
Bell. Thou sees’t he does.