Bell. Is this the suit the knight bestowed upon you?
Mat. This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it, for better men than I would be glad to have suits bestowed on them. It’s a generous fellow,—but—pox on him—we whose pericranions are the very limbecks and stillatories of good wit and fly high, must drive liquor out of stale gaping oysters—shallow knight, poor squire Tinacheo: I’ll make a wild Cataian[278] of forty such: hang him, he’s an ass, he’s always sober.
Bell. This is your fault to wound your friends still.
Mat. No, faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble Slavonian: it’s more rare to see him in a woman’s company, than for a Spaniard to go into England, and to challenge the English fencers there.—[Knocking within.] One knocks,—see.—[Exit Bellafront.]—La, fa, fol, la, fa, la, [Sings] rustle in silks and satins! there’s music in this, and a taffeta petticoat, it makes both fly high. Catso.
Re-enter Bellafront with Orlando in his own dress, and four Servants.
Bell. Matheo! ’tis my father.
Mat. Ha! father? It’s no matter, he finds no tattered prodigals here.
Orl. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue coats?[279] away, knaves, Wear not your clothes threadbare at knees for me; beg Heaven’s blessing, not mine.—[Exeunt Servants.]—Oh cry your worship mercy, sir; was somewhat bold to talk to this gentlewoman, your wife here.
Mat. A poor gentlewoman, sir.
Orl. Stand not, sir, bare to me; I ha’ read oft
That serpents who creep low, belch ranker poison
Than wingèd dragons do that fly aloft.