Prate. Say'st thou me so, wench? a kiss for that, i' faith;
'Fore God, it is a delicate fine suit,
Rich stuff, rare work, and of the newest fashion:
Nay, if the senate's business were never so hasty,
I will stay to try it on; come, help;
Good wenches, help. So, there, there, there.
[The orator puts on Alphonso's apparel.
Mech. 'Sfoot, will the ox put on the lion's hide!
He will, he will, 'tis more than excellent;
So gild the tomb that holds but rottenness!
Laughter, I fear, will burst me; look how he struts.
O God, that ever man should look
Upon this maumet,[200] and not laugh at him!
[Aside.
Prate. Fit, fit, excellent fit, as though
The body it was made for wore my mould.
Wife, I will have it: we'll dispute no price.
Enter Velours.
Vel. Master orator, the senate are set, and can despatch no causes through your absence; therefore they earnestly entreat your presence.
Prate. I come, I come; good friend, go, say I come.
And, wife, see that
You pay for this suit, whatsoe'er it cost. [Exit Prate.
Mech. Not above making you cuckold: that's the most.