Flo. The pox rot off your fingers for this blow!
It is coronation-day thorough all my skull,
There's such a fatal ringing in my brain:
H' has won the set, has laid five fingers on:
But 'twas a knavish part of him to play so.
Hear me, ye gods: for this my open wrong,
Make short his fingers, as you have his tongue.
[Exit Florio.
Enter Mechant alone.
Mech. 'Tis not man's fortune, envy, or neglect,
Which makes him miserable; but 'tis mean fate,
Even sole predestination, a firm gift
Fix'd to his birth, before the world was made.
For were it otherwise, then within our lives
We should find some distractions, various[173] change.
And other toys of much uncertainty:
But my mishaps are fix'd so to my blood,
They have no sire but my creation:
The queen, out of suspicion that my love
First set an edge upon the king's desires,
And made him woo her with a victor's sword.
Cast me from favour, seizes all my lands,
And turns my naked fortunes to the cold.
The king, made proud with purchase of his wish,
Neglects my sufferance for him, and o'erlooks
The low tide of my fortunes; lest my woes
Should speak my wrongs to his ingratitude:
The whilst those lords, whose supple hams have bow'd
To do me formal reverence, now despise
And slight me in their meanest compliments.
O, 'tis a torment more than hell yet knows,
To be an honest flatterer, or to live
A saint in limbo, which that I may prevent,
I'll be nor best nor worst, but all indifferent,
But here comes a nobleman; I must turn petitioner.
Enter Florio.
My lord, may I not see the king?
Flo. You may not.
His majesty is now down-press'd with seriousness:
As for your suit, it is with Prate the orator,
I heard his highness give him a special charge
For your despatch with favour.
Mech. O, but he doth neglect,
And slights me like his weak orations:
And by your lordship's leave I do not think
His wisdom worthy of the conference.
Flo. Nay, if you will correct the king's coin, you are not for my conference, farewell.
[Exit Florio.