Bell. So poor, that, though to tell it be my shame,
I am not worth a dish to hold my meat;
I am yet poorer, I want bread to eat.
Orl. It’s not seen by your cheeks.
Mat. I think she has read an homily to tickle the old rogue. [Aside.
Orl. Want bread! there’s satin: bake that.
Mat. ’Sblood, make pasties of my clothes?
Orl. A fair new cloak, stew that; an excellent gilt rapier.
Mat. Will you eat that, sir?
Orl. I could feast ten good fellows with these hangers.[282]
Mat. The pox, you shall!