Atlas. But being now you do, I fear you must go without it.
Had. If I do, Atlas, be it so: I'll e'en go write this rhyme over my bed's head—
Undone by folly; fortune, lend me more.
Canst thou, and wilt not? pox on such a whore!
and so I'll set up my rest. But see, Atlas, here's a little of that that damns lawyers; take it in part of a further recompense.
Atlas. No, pray keep it; I am conceited of your better fortunes, and therefore will stay out that expectation.
Had. Why, if you will, you may; but the surmounting of my fortunes is as much to be doubted as he whose estate lies in the lottery—desperate.
Atlas. But ne'er despair. 'Sfoot, why should not you live as well as a thousand others that wear change of taffata, whose means were never anything?
Had. Yes, cheating, theft and panderising, or, maybe, flattery: I have maintained some of them myself. But come, hast aught to breakfast?
Atlas. Yes, there's the fag-end of a leg of mutton.
Had. There cannot be a sweeter dish; it has cost money the dressing.