Cri. Good still!
Pan. But now, my honest Trincalo,
Tell me where's all the plate, the gold, and jewels,
That the astrologer, when he had transform'd thee,
Committed to thy charge? are they safe-lock'd?
Ant. I understand you not.
Pan. The jewels, man;
The plate and gold th' astrologer that chang'd thee
Bad thee lay up.
Ant. What plate? What gold?
What jewels? What transformation? What astrologer?
Cri. Leave off Antonio now, and speak like Trincalo.
Ant. Leave off your jesting. It neither fits your place
Nor age, Pandolfo, to scoff your ancient friend.
I know not what you mean by gold and jewels,
Nor by th' astrologer, nor Trincalo.
Cri. Better and better still. Believe me, sir,
He thinks himself Antonio, and ever shall be,
And so possess your plate. Art thou not Trincalo,
My master's farmer?
Ant. I am Antonio,
Your master's friend, if he teach you more manners.
Pan. Humour of wiving's gone. Farewell, good Flavia.
Three thousand pound must not be lost so slightly.
Come, sir; we'll drag you to th' astrologer,
And turn you to your ragged bark of yeomanry.