Chap. So, indeed, you say.
Cham. Pr'ythee, be serious then.
Chap. You see I am so,
And hardly shall be mad enough to-night
To trust you with my ruin.
Cham. Art thou then
So far concerned in't? What has been thy office?
Curse on that formal steady villain's face!
Just so do all bawds look; nay, bawds, they say,
Can pray upon occasion, talk of Heaven,
Turn up their goggling eye-balls, rail at vice,
Dissemble, lie, and preach like any priest.
Art thou a bawd?
Chap. Sir, I'm not often used thus.
Cham. Be just then.
Chap. So I shall be to the trust
That's laid upon me.
Cham. By the reverenced soul
Of that great honest man that gave me being,
Tell me but what thou know'st concerns my honour,
And if I e'er reveal it to thy wrong,
May this good sword ne'er do me right in battle!
May I ne'er know that blessed peace of mind,
That dwells in good and pious men, like thee!
Chap. I see your temper's moved, and I will trust you.
Cham. Wilt thou?