Trin. But I mean, where's your other hand?
Ron. Think you me the giant with a hundred hands?
Trin. Give me your right.
Ron. My right?
Trin. Your left.
Ron. My left?
Trin. Now both.
Ron. There's both, my dear Antonio.
Keep yourself dark; eat broth. Your fearful passage
And want of natural rest hath made you frantic.
[Exit.
Trin. Villain, rogue, cutpurse, thief!
[Aside.]
Dear Ronca, stay.
He's gone—
I' th' devil's name, how could this fellow do it?
I felt his hands fast lock'd about my neck;
And still he spoke. It could not be his mouth:
For that was full of dear Antonio.
My life! he stole't with his feet. Such a trick more
Will work worse with me than a looking-glass:
To lose five pounds in court'sy, and the rest
In salutation!