Ser. Your trunks are shipped, and the tide falls out about twelve to-night.
Capt. Pouts. I'll away. This law is like the basilisk, to see it first is the death on't.[41] This night and, noble London, farewell; I will never see thee more, till I be knighted for my virtues. Let me see, when shall I return? and yet I do not think, but there are a great many dubbed for their virtues; otherwise, how could there be so many poor knights?[42]
Enter Strange, like a soldier, amazedly.
What art thou? what's thy news?
Strange. 'Zoons; a man is fain to break open
doors, ere he can get in to you. I would speak with a general sooner.
Capt. Pouts. Sir, you may: he owes less, peradventure; or if more, he is more able to pay't. What art?
Strange. A soldier; one that lives upon this buff jerkin: 'twas made of Fortunatus's pouch; and these are the points I stand upon. I am a soldier.
Capt. Pouts. A counterfeit rogue you are.