My lord Lorenzo is so slack in murder,
Not to afford me notice all this while.
Gold, I am true;
I had my hire, and thou shalt have thy due:
Was’t possible to miss him so? soft! soft!
This gallery leads to Bell’-Imperia’s lodging;
There he is, sure, or will be, sure. I’ll stay:
The evening too begins to slubber day:[303]
Sweet, opportuneful season; here I’ll lean,
Like a court-hound, that licks fat trenchers clean.