Gio. May I not call her mistress?
Ant. As a servant, far from the thoughts of wedlock.
Gio. I'm yours, friend: I am proud on't; you shall find
That, though a tailor, I've an honest mind.
Pray, master, help my lord unto a suit; his life
Lies at your mercy.
1st Tai. I'll warrant you.
Ant. But for thy men.
1st Tai. O, they are proud in that they rescu'd you,
And my blood of honour; since you are pleas'd
To grace the now declining trade of tailors
By being shrouded in their homely clothes,
And deck a shop-board with your noble person;
The taunting scorns the foul-mouth'd world can throw
Upon our needful calling shall be answered:
They injure honour, since your honour is a
Noble practitioner in our mystery.
Gio. Cheer up, Antonio, take him in.
The rest will make him merry; I'd go try
The temper of a sword upon some shield
That guards a foe. Pray for my good success.
[Exit.
1st Tai. Come, come, my lord, leave melancholy
To hired slaves, that murther at a price:
Yours was——
Ant. No more: flatter not [so] my sin.