Ful. 'Twas an affront galls me to think on't: besides,
His saucy valour might have ruin'd all
Our forward fortunes, had the French been stronger:
Let him be banish'd.
Mach. It shall be so;
My fears are built on grounds,
Stronger than Atlas' shoulders: this same tailor
Retains a spirit like the lost Antonio;
Whose sister we will banish in pretence
Of love to justice; 'tis a good snare to trap
The vulgar hearts: his and her goods, to gild
My lawless doings, I'll give the poor, whose tongues
Are i' their bellies; which being full,
Is tipp'd with heartless prayers; but, empty,
A falling planet is less dangerous; they'll down
To hell for curses. You tailor!
Gio. My lord.
Mach. Deliver up your prisoner.
Gio. Y' are obey'd.
Mach. So: now we command, on forfeit of thy life,
You be not seen on any ground
Our master's title circles within three days:
Such a factious spirit we must not nourish;
Lest, like the fabl'd serpent, [once] grown warm
In your conceited worth, you sting
Your country's breast, that nurs'd your valour.
Gio. This my reward?
Aler. More than thy worth deserves.
Gio. Pomander-box, thou liest!
Ful. Go purge yourself; your country vomits you.