Whither art bound?
Post. I am for London, sir.
Pas. Nay, stop one moment; I conjure thee, stop!
Say what these tidings that demand such haste?
Post. That which my packets do contain.
Pas. An thou will tell me their contents, there’s gold.
Fool. Now, i’ troth, thou’lt unlock letters, packets, and all: look, look! the knave doth handle it with good grace! Sirrah, an thou play’dst on David’s harp, thy fingers ne’er would move so glibly o’er the strings, as o’er yon gold. Dost hear me?
Post. Thy gold, indeed, doth please; it fills my purse;
And though it should not, yet what matters it?
I am well fee’d for telling that alone,