Heigh. Turn to us? turn to the gallows, if you will.
Har. 'Tis midsummer-moon with him: let him alone.
He calls Ned Walgrave Master Vandal.
Wal. Let it be Shrovetide, I'll not stay an inch. Master Pisaro.
Pis. What should you fear? and, as I have vow'd before,
So now again, my daughters shall be yours:
And therefore I beseech you and your friends
Defer your business till dinner-time;
And what you'd say, keep it for table-talk.
Har. Marry, and I shall; a right good motion.
Sirs, old Pisaro is grown kind of late,
And in pure love hath bid us home to dinner.
Heigh. Good news, in truth. But wherefore art thou sad?
Wal. For fear the slave, ere it be dinner-time,
Remembering what he did, recall his word:
For by his idle speeches you may swear,
His heart was not confederate with his tongue.
Har. Tut, never doubt; keep stomachs till anon;
And then we shall have cates to feed upon.
Pis. Well, sir, since things do full so crossly out,
I must dispose myself to patience:
But for your business, do you assure yourself,
At my repairing home from the Exchange,
I'll set a helping hand unto the same.
Enter Alvaro the Italian.