Lus. Nay, you mistake me, then,
For I am publish'd bountiful enough.
Let's taste of your conceit.
Ven. In picture, my lord?
Lus. Ay, in picture.
Ven. Marry, this it is—A usuring father to be boiling in hell, and his son and heir with a whore dancing over him.
Hip. H' has par'd him to the quick. [Aside.
Lus. The conceit's pretty, i' faith;
But, take't upon my life, 'twill ne'er be lik'd.
Ven. No? why I'm sure the whore will be lik'd well enough.
Hip. If she were out o' the picture, he'd like her then himself.
[Aside.
Ven. And as for the son and heir, he shall be an eyesore to no young revellers, for he shall be drawn in cloth-of-gold breeches.