Tow. Very true, sir: but it makes nothing to
My bill of exchange. This dealing fits not one
Of your account.
Pis. And what fits yours? a prating, wrangling tongue,
A woman's ceaseless and incessant babbling,
That sees the world turn'd topsy-turvy[498] with me.
Yet hath not so much wit to stay a while,
Till I bemoan my late excessive loss.
Wal. 'Swounds! 'tis dinner-time, I'll stay no longer.
Hark you a word, sir.
Pis. I tell you, sir, it would have made you whine
Worse than if shoals of luckless croaking ravens
Had seiz'd on you, to feed their famished paunches,
Had you heard news of such a ravenous rout,
Eeady to seize on half the wealth you have.
Wal. 'Sblood! you might have kept at home, and be hang'd.
What a pox care I?
Enter a Post.
Post. God save your worship: a little money, and so forth.
Pis. But men are senseless now of others' woe:
This stony age is grown so stony-hearted,
That none respects their neighbours' miseries.
I wish (as poets do) that Saturn's times,
The long outworn world, were in use again,
That men might sail without impediment.
Post. Ay, marry, sir, that were a merry world indeed: I would hope to get more money of your worship in one quarter of a year than I can do now in a whole twelvemonth.
Enter Balsaro.