Andel. Therefore not a word; go, trudge to your father. Sigh not for your purse, money may be got by you, as well as by the little Welshwoman in Cyprus, that had but one horn in her head;[407] you have two, and perhaps you shall cast both. As you use me, mark those words well, “as you use me,” nay, y’are best fly, I’ll not endure one word more. Yet stay too, because you entreat me so gently, and that I’ll make some amends to your father,—although I care not for any king in Christendom, yet hold you, take this apple, eat it as you go to court, and your horns shall play the cowards and fall from you.
Agrip. O gentle Andelocia.
Andel. Nay, away, not a word.
Shad. Ha, ha, ha! ’Ware horns! [Exit Agripyne, weeping.
Andel. Why dost thou laugh, Shadow?
Shad. To see what a horn plague follows covetousness and pride.
Amp. Brother, what mysteries lie in all this?
Andel. Tricks, Ampedo, tricks, devices, and mad hieroglyphics, mirth, mirth, and melody. O, there’s more music in this, than all the gamut airs, and sol fa res, in the world; here’s the purse, and here’s the hat: because you shall be sure I’ll not start, wear you this, you know its virtue. If danger beset you, fly and away: a sort of broken-shinned limping-legged jades run hobbling to seek us. Shadow, we’ll for all this have one fit of mirth more, to make us laugh and be fat.
Shad. And when we are fat, master, we’ll do as all gluttons do, laugh and lie down.
Andel. Hie thee to my chamber, make ready my richest attire, I’ll to court presently.