Cri. This is well begun,
So he hold out still with a higher strain.
[Aside.
What ails you, sir?
Pan. Cricca, my chamber's spoil'd
Of all my hangings, clothes, and silver plate.
[Exit Albumazar.
Cri. Why, this is bravely feign'd; continue, sir.
Pan. Lay all the goldsmiths, keepers, marshals, bailiffs.
Cri. Fie, sir, your passion falls; cry louder—roar,
That all the street may hear.
Pan. Thieves, thieves, thieves!
All that I had is gone, and more than all.
Cri. Ha, ha, ha! hold out; lay out a lion's throat;
A little louder.
Pan. I can cry no longer,
My throat's sore; I am robb'd, I am robb'd, all's gone,
Both my own treasure, and the things I borrow'd.
Make thou an outcry, I have lost my voice:
Cry fire, and then they'll hear thee.
Cri. Good, good: thieves!
What have you lost?