Andel. ’Twas never merry world with us, since purses and bags were invented, for now men set lime-twigs to catch wealth: and gold, which riseth like the sun out of the East Indies, to shine upon every one, is like a cony taken napping in a pursenet,[354] and suffers his glistering yellow-face deity to be lapped up in lambskins, as if the innocency of those leather prisons should dispense with the cheveril[355] consciences of the iron-hearted gaolers.
Shad. Snudges[356] may well be called gaolers: for if a poor wretch steal but into a debt of ten pound, they lead him straight to execution.
Andel. Doth it not vex thee, Shadow, to stalk up and down Cyprus, and to meet the outside of a man, lapped all in damask, his head and beard as white as milk, only with conjuring in the snowy circles of the field argent, and his nose as red as scarlet, only with kissing the ruddy lips of angels,[357] and such an image to wear on his thumb, three men’s livings in the shape of a seal ring, whilst my brother Virtue here,—
Shad. And you his brother Vice!
Andel. Most true, my little lean Iniquity—whilst we three, if we should starve, cannot borrow five shillings of him neither in word nor deed: does not this vex thee, Shadow?
Shad. Not me; it vexes me no more to see such a picture, than to see an ass laden with riches, because I know when he can bear no longer, he must leave his burthen to some other beast.
Andel. Art not thou mad, to see money on goldsmiths’ stalls, and none in our purses?
Shad. It mads not me, I thank the destinies.
Andel. By my poverty, and that’s but a thread-bare oath, I am more than mad to see silks and velvets lie crowding together in mercers’ shops, as in prisons, only for fear of the smell of wax—they cannot abide to see a man made out of wax, for these satin commodities have such smooth consciences that they’ll have no man give his word for them or stand bound for their coming forth, but vow to lie till they rot in those shop counters, except Monsieur Money bail them. Shadow, I am out of my little wits to see this.
Shad. So is not Shadow: I am out of my wits, to see fat gluttons feed all day long, whilst I that am lean fast every day: I am out of my wits, to see our Famagosta fools turn half a shop of wares into a suit of gay apparel, only to make other idiots laugh, and wise men to cry, who’s the fool now? I am mad, to see soldiers beg, and cowards brave: I am mad, to see scholars in the broker’s shop, and dunces in the mercer’s: I am mad, to see men that have no more fashion in them than poor Shadow, yet must leap thrice a day into three orders of fashions: I am mad, to see many things, but horn-mad, that my mouth feels nothing.